


Commonality

by colacube (PaulMonroe)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 3: Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, Characters Added As They Appear - Freeform, F/F, F/M, Friendship, Gay Harry Potter, Gen, Gryffindor/Slytherin Inter-House Relationships, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Multi, The Golden Trio, harry just wants to have a good time but instead he gets this, mentions of abuse, nothing graphic but it is a focal point, slight angst, will likely be endgame harry/theo but not in third year as they are babies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:15:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 66,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24191191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaulMonroe/pseuds/colacube
Summary: When Snape forces Harry to partner with a Slytherin during potions, Harry finds common ground in an unexpected place.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter, Remus Lupin & Harry Potter, Theodore Nott & Harry Potter
Comments: 60
Kudos: 258





	1. The Bruise

“I can’t believe you’re abandoning me to double Snape all on my own,” Harry grumbled for the third time since waking, aiming as powerful a glare as he could muster at 7.30 on a Monday morning towards the Ron-shaped lump lying in his best friend’s bed.

“Eugh, Merlin.” Ron’s miserable voice responded from somewhere within the blankets, sounding pitifully weak. “Don’t mention Snape, Harry, I’ll vomit again.” Harry let out a sigh. It was disappointingly hard to be mad at Ron when his friend sounded this pathetic.

“I don’t suppose you could cough on me a bit, so I could get sick and skive off the rest of the morning?” Harry asked the air with a tinge of desperation. Ron’s only response was a painful sounding moan that might have started its life as a laugh. Harry decided to channel his Gryffindor courage and admit defeat.

“Alright,” He conceded. “Madam Pomfrey should be here within an hour, right? I think Gryffindor was first on her rounds today. I’ll check on you at lunch time. Maybe smuggle you out a few sausages?” A slightly more hopeful-sounding moan escaped from the area of Ron’s bed. “Maybe a pasty, too?” he sniffed. Harry picked up his things and headed for the door with a laugh. “See you later, mate. Hope you feel better, too, Neville.” His other remaining roommate gave him a weak smile from where he was bundled up in his own bed, dozing off over his Herbology textbook.

It was hard not to notice the air of despondence that had overtaken his House over the last few days. The first Monday of a new school year always seemed to bring a bit of melancholy with it in Gryffindor, but combined with the flu that had swept across the school since they arrived on Wednesday, the house seemed positively morose today. Only around a fifth of students had actually come down with the bug, but it had hit Gryffindor particularly hard, and considering the sick included both his best friends, Hermione and Ron, Harry felt he had a better reason than most to be grumpy today.

The Great Hall did nothing to lift Harry’s spirits. More prominent gaps than usual at this time of the morning were visible across all tables, but Gryffindor looked particularly barren. Spotting Seamus and Dean near the end of the table, Harry slid in across from them and carried on an only somewhat enthusiastic conversation about Quidditch until it was time to leave.

“Cheer up, Harry,” Seamus said as they made their way down towards the dungeons. “Maybe Snape’s gotten sick and he won’t be able to teach today. Or this week, if we’re lucky.”

Harry noted the wistful look on his friend’s face and decided to keep his comment about his famously bad luck to himself. By the time they reached the classroom (a little late, after a bit of healthy feet-dragging) most of the class was assembled outside. Harry noticed, with a sudden burst of cheer, that Malfoy seemed to be missing. Maybe his luck wasn’t so terrible after all.

The door to the classroom swung open moments after they arrived and Professor Snape appeared in the entrance, towering over the students. “Enter.” He said cooly, turning and sweeping back inside. Harry could see Seamus squinting at the Professor’s back with a considering expression as they followed their classmates in. If he was trying to determine if the man looked sick, Harry thought he might be in trouble. With his normally sallow skin and general miserable appearance, Harry thought even Pomfrey might not be able to tell.

The problem became apparent almost immediately after arriving at the Gryffindor side of the classroom. Harry almost always paired with Ron in potions, which was one of the only things that made the class bearable. But one furious headcount later, and Harry realised that with three Gryffindors and one Slytherin down, each group would be missing a partner. This fact seemed to have occurred to his housemates, as Lavender and Parvati, as well as Dean and Seamus behind them, all shot him sympathetic and slightly guilty looks from their seats in the safely Gryffindor zone.

Harry swivelled towards the other side of the classroom and scanned the rows for the odd student out. He quietly thanked Merlin that Crabbe and Goyle were partnered together and felt a sweep of relief to see Theodore Nott sitting alone at the back of the class. At least if he had to work with a Slytherin it wouldn’t be someone he had an active enmity with, like Pansy Parkinson or, Merlin forbid, Malfoy. He even had to rack his brain for a second to come up with Nott’s name. He had a few vague memories of Nott sneering in the background as Malfoy made some snide joke about Harry or one of his friends, but he couldn’t recall the other boy ever actually talking to him. Still, no need to draw attention to himself by standing around. He hastily took a seat behind Dean and tried to look small. Maybe he’d get lucky and Snape wouldn’t even—

“Potter.” A slow, sarcastic voice sounded from behind him. “Are the basics of arithmetic too advanced for you? There is an empty seat next to Mr. Nott. Perhaps you’re trying to save him from having an incompetent potions partner, but no need. I’m sure Mr. Nott will be able to handle your ineptitude for one lesson.” Harry clenched his fists tight under the table as someone giggled, and he tried not to look into his Professor’s sneering face.

“Yes, sir.” He mumbled, picking up his things and moving towards the Slytherin side of the classroom jerkily. He felt as if he were heading for the gallows. Out of the corner of his eye he could spot Dean giving him a commiserating look, and Pansy Parkinson ahead of him was clearly smirking to her partner, Daphne Greengrass. He dumped his bag under the desk and sat on the edge of his seat, glaring at the stone floor.

As Snape prattled acerbically on about that day’s potion, Harry found his attention drifting. He knew he’d be in for it if Snape caught him zoning out, but he still found himself watching Nott out of the corner of his eye with a growing curiosity. Harry wondered if he’d ever given the other boy a single thought since perhaps the sorting. Probably not. He’d honestly never particularly stood out. Nott remained as stringy as ever, but seemed to have begun ageing in a way in which Harry uncomfortably felt he himself had not. It wasn’t that he looked all that older, Harry mused; his hair was neater than Harry’s, and his nose was as long and thin as the rest of him, but mostly he seemed to simply hold himself with a certain composure that Harry had only seen in the most Pureblood of the Slytherins. And Harry was beginning to suspect his face was just naturally set in a bit of a scowl. He was wondering idly if it was some sort of Slytherin tradition to spent inordinate amounts of time on your hair in the mornings when Nott’s eyes were suddenly on him in a fierce glare, and Harry had to blink at the intensity of the vitriol being aimed at him. Harry quickly turned ahead towards the front of the classroom, where Snape, Merlin, still seemed to be describing the day’s potion. He felt his cheeks blaze as he saw Nott in his periphery slowly return his attention to the front. Harry quickly picked up his quill and began attempting to take notes on – he glanced at the board, shifting a little to see over Crabbe’s head - the Shrinking Solution.

Just as Harry was beginning to ardently wish he’d caught the bug going round, Snape finally released them to start brewing the potion. As the students rose around him to scramble for the ingredient cupboard (the Slytherins, Harry noted with a little chagrin, with a bit more dignity about them), Harry peaked cautiously over at Nott.

“Er,” He began, but Nott was already standing and making his way silently to the cupboard without sparing him a glance. Harry cleared his throat and followed.

***

Five minutes into the practical side of the lesson, Harry realised it might have been a little bit near-sighted of him to have zoned out during the first Potions theory of the year. As the rest of his classmates began chopping and slicing ingredients, Harry found himself looking around in mild panic and furiously reading the scant instructions on the board to get an idea of what he was supposed to be doing. Merlin, this potion seemed complicated.

“Trust Snape to set us this in our first class...” He grumbled, slicing into a group of unfortunate caterpillars. What was next in the recipe?

“Perhaps if you had been paying attention to the class instead of studying me with all the subtlety of a Gryffindor, you’d actually know what you were supposed to be doing.” A quiet voice drawled from his left. Glancing up in surprise (and simultaneously knocking an unevenly decapitated caterpillar to the floor), Harry started at the slight sneer on Nott’s face.

“Uh,” He said, intelligently. “I wasn’t… I mean, I was just..” He cleared his throat as Nott cut him a withering look. Harry promptly returned to his caterpillars. The lesson dragged on and Harry once again cursed the illness that had disrupted his and Ron’s time-honed partnership. Maybe their potions never received above an A, but they at least had a system to make the lesson as painless as possible. Potions on his own was a nightmare.

He was just about to drop his peeled Shrivelfig gracelessly into the cauldron when a pale hand snatched his wrist in a vice grip. Harry was so stunned that he simply blinked at Nott for a few moments.

“Are you trying to poison me, Potter? The instructions clearly state that the Shrivelfig must be shaken extensively before it’s added so it doesn’t emit noxious gas.” Nott’s glare was sharp as cut glass, and Harry felt embarrassment clawing up his neck.

“Oh,” he began to say, only to stop dead. Nott’s hand was still on his own, keeping the volatile Shrivelfig away from the potion, but in the movement Harry saw that his sleeve had fallen back slightly. It was only a few inches, but it was enough to see the unmistakable form of ugly purple bruises surrounding Nott’s thin wrist. Harry noticed, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, that they were in the shape of fingers.

His hand was jerked back suddenly, and Harry absently thanked Merlin that he retained his grip on the Shrivelfigs. Nott was staring ahead, but Harry saw with another lurch in his stomach that a tinge of red was making its way across the boy’s pale cheeks. Harry swallowed, and turned back to his potion. A few moments passed, during which neither boy moved. The sounds of potions hissing and knives scraping filled the space between them. Harry cleared his throat and let the Shrivelfigs scatter onto his desk. He began working, and after a few moments Nott did the same.

They passed the rest of the lesson in silence. Harry thought to himself idly that it was far easier to focus on something dull when there was something else you were desperately trying not to think of. After what felt like hours, the students around him began stoppering up vials of their potions. Harry noted with only vague dismay that his was more of a sickly vomit colour than the pea green of Nott’s. He didn’t like the odds that vomit was the desired shade. Snape, mercifully, didn’t even glance at Harry’s vial as he gingerly deposited it amid a sea of pea-green potions and hastily retreated to his desk.

Nott was already scouring his cauldron in the sink when Harry lugged his over. As he took a moment to watch Nott scrub furiously against the pewter, Harry finally began paying attention to the queasy feeling that had been squirming in his stomach for the last hour. He stared at the back of Nott’s head for a few moments more, then sighed and brought his cauldron to the water. He ignored the protective gloves above the sink for the students, and slowly rolled his sleeves up before getting to work. Despite glaring wholeheartedly at the stains on his cauldron (Merlin, he hated potions), Harry could feel Nott’s eyes slowly fixing themselves on a patch of Harry’s right arm, where his Aunt Marge’s bulldog Ripper had made good on his name over the summer, to his cousin Dudley’s delight. Harry continued to glare rigidly ahead as he finally finished cleaning the cauldron. Slowly, he felt Nott turn his head back towards his own hands. Both boys remained still for a few moments. The queasiness in Harry’s stomach finally began to recede. The red had almost entirely faded from Nott’s cheeks by the time Harry forced himself to face him. Nott’s eyes seemed darker than they had earlier, as they stared unerringly into Harry’s, but the look on his face was one Harry couldn’t read. Quietly turning off both taps, Harry gently pulled his sleeves back down and looked back at the other boy. Nott’s mouth slowly opened, and Harry found himself leaning forward to hear what he had to say.

“Potter—”

“Alright, Harry?” He blinked twice, and turned to find a wary-looking Dean standing behind him with Seamus to his right.

“Uh, yeah, I was just... cleaning.” He mumbled, not meeting their eyes. Nott was already gone.

Dean looked between Harry and the retreating boy with a slightly raised eyebrow. He had a small green stain on his robe which was smoking slightly. Seamus next to him looked like he’d been through five rounds against a mountain troll. “Is everything okay, Harry? You look a little out of sorts.”

Harry nodded absently as he began lugging his cauldron out of the sink.

“You sure, mate?” Seamus asked, an uncharacteristically serious look on his face. “’Cause, I mean, you just spent _double Potions_ with a _Slytherin_. You must be in shock, at least. Maybe you should lie down?”

“Five points from Gryffindor for giving imbecilic medical advice to another student, Finnigan.” Snape drawled from somewhere behind him. Despite himself, Harry had to hide a smile at the thunderous look on Seamus’ face. Dean caught his eye from behind the other boy and grinned.

“Come on,” Harry snorted, scooping up his things. “I promised Ron I’d sneak him some sausages.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never written for HP, and i haven't written any ff in 7 years, so this is a little bit unpolished. However, the idea was badgering me all night and I had to get it out. I like the idea of Harry interacting with different characters from canon in run-of-the-mill ways, and I have a soft spot for interpretations of Theodore Nott which have him be better than he is in canon (and flesh out that backstory).  
> I might continue this at some point if i get the writing bug again. Thank you for reading!


	2. Care of Magical Creatures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They were speaking softly so as not to wake the others. Sometimes, on nights like this, Harry found his eyes started prickling for no good reason: Ron’s warm, sleepy voice; the bedside candle throwing soft light over the photo of his smiling parents; the fire crackling and spitting gently in the corner, warming him even from here; the quiet sleeping sounds of his friends around the room; Harry sometimes found he had to swallow hard suddenly. It was a persistent reminder of how much his life had changed in only the last two years; it hit him out of nowhere, some days, how far he was now from the lonely little boy in that dark, cold cupboard.

“Ron, do you know anything about the Nott family?”

Harry’s voice was studiously casual as he tried to balance the chessboard on his lap. It would have been a bit easier, he thought, if Ron’s chess pieces weren’t quite so boisterous tonight. As it was, Harry was having to physically restrain his outraged knight from charging Ron’s bishop after an admittedly disastrous move on Harry’s part. Pinching the head between his thumb and forefinger as the tiny figure began shouting curses at Harry (and at his mother, father, and the ‘deranged imbecile’ who had decided to teach him chess), Harry wondered if all chess pieces were so energetic, or if some of Ron’s rather fiery personality had rubbed off on these ones somehow.

“Bishop to B4,” Ron mumbled from where he was lying on his own bed, looking rather miserable and flushed in the dim light. Harry was taking it as a good sign for his recovery that he could focus enough for a game of chess. He was just happy that he could finally spend some time relaxing with his best friend after the mess of the summer and the chaos of the new term (even if it did mean subjecting himself to the humiliation of playing Ron at chess).

They were speaking softly so as not to wake the others. Sometimes, on nights like this, Harry found his eyes started prickling for no good reason: Ron’s warm, sleepy voice; the bedside candle throwing soft light over the photo of his smiling parents; the fire crackling and spitting gently in the corner, warming him even from here; the quiet sleeping sounds of his friends around the room; Harry sometimes found he had to swallow hard suddenly. It was a persistent reminder of how much his life had changed in only the last two years; it hit him out of nowhere, some days, how far he was now from the lonely little boy in that dark, cold cupboard.

“The Notts?” Ron asked, face screwing up a little in thought as he fought off a yawn. Harry blinked back to the moment and returned to reluctantly scanning the board for a move that wouldn’t end in a full-out coup from his pieces.

“I think I heard dad mention one of the Notts once, a few years ago, when he was talking about the War. Don’t really remember what he said, though. Why?”

Harry shrugged, trying not to dislodge the board. “No reason, really. Just had to pair with Nott for potions today and I realised I don’t really know anything about him. Merlin!” His rook had joined the cause, jabbing his sword into Harry’s thumb with vengeance. “Ugh, fine, knight to... D4.” He scowled as the wriggling little piece leapt for freedom.

“Hmph. Don’t suppose there’d be much to know. Gives me the creeps, he does.” Ron pulled a face, presumably at having to think about a Slytherin while already ill in bed. Harry smiled and quickly changed the subject to something that would cheer Ron up.

A mortifying fifteen minutes later, the chess set was pushed deep under Ron’s bed where Harry hoped it would remain for the foreseeable future, and both boys settled in for the night.

Sleep took its time finding Harry, and when it did he dreamt of wriggling headless caterpillars with dark, gleaming bruises.

***

The next morning, Harry was interrupted during his breakfast by a piece of parchment being tossed casually onto his plate.

“Hermione asked me to give you this.” Parvati said around a yawn, falling onto a seat opposite him with Lavender in tow.

“Oh, thanks. How’s she doing?” Harry asked, nudging the letter off his toast.

“She’s driving us spare,” Lavender moaned, spooning some porridge into her bowl with a scowl on her usually cheery face. “She’s convinced she’s going to fail everything and she won’t stop badgering us to tell her everything we’ve been learning in class _again_.”

“Never mind that she’s getting all the notes like everyone else ‘cause of that charm Flitwick set up.” Parvati added, seemingly a little more relaxed about Hermione’s impending breakdown. Being twins with a Ravenclaw must give you nerves of steel about this sort of thing, Harry reasoned.

“It’s truly an impressive piece of magic,” Percy Weasley interrupted from where he was sitting a few seats down. “It’s a variation on the _Gemino_ charm. Flitwick’s had us practising it in our NEWT class.” He said with his usual pomposity. Harry supposed it was a clever charm – everything written on the master copy would appear on every linked piece of parchment; that way, the sick students could still receive notes from their classes while in bed. Clever as it was, however, it seemed like only Hermione, Percy, and most of the Ravenclaws appreciated it. Ron had had a few choice words to say when he found out he’d still be receiving assignments to catch up on when he was better.

Harry cast Percy a vacant smile as he carried on espousing the properties of the charm, and hurriedly picked up the note from Hermione. Lavender and Parvati had been right: Hermione was definitely going spare. She was requesting he pick up ‘a few’ – Harry counted eight – extra books from the library for her so she won’t fall behind. With a sigh, he pulled out a quill from his bag and scribbled a response on the back:

_Hermione, it’s only the third day of school! No one is falling behind. You’d be ahead of the whole year even if you have to stay in bed for a month (although don’t panic, Madame Pomfrey said you’ll be fine by the end of the week, didn’t she?)_

_But fine, I’ll grab you the books after class and get someone to bring them up to you. Eight seems like a lot, though, Hermione. You’re sick, remember? You should be relaxing. Anyway, I hope you’re feeling better and I’ll talk to you soon._

_Harry’_

After securing an only mildly resentful agreement from Lavender that she’d pass the note along at lunch, Harry scooped up his things and headed for his first class. Today would be their first Care of Magical Creatures and he couldn’t wait to see what Hagrid would be like as a teacher.

***

“Alrigh’, who else wants a go?” Hagrid asked the class as the cheers from Harry’s sudden flight began to die down.

The students swarmed into the paddock as Harry attempted catch his breath and his footing. _Merlin_. He definitely preferred his broom. Since he had been the guinea pig, Harry was left watching as the rest of the class began approaching the Hippogriffs. They were sharing the class with the Slytherins, and Harry once again thanked the stars that Malfoy was still sick in bed. He had heard him complaining during the welcoming feast that he would have to have Hagrid for a teacher, so he knew he was supposed to be here. It was definitely for the best he was sick; he couldn’t imagine the prat agreeing to bow to a magical creature.

Harry decided to do a little aimless wandering around the paddock while the rest of the class got to work. Lavender and Parvati had headed straight for the Hippogriff with the pinkish roan coat, and they seemed to have fallen in love, Harry noted with a smile. He could hear them cooing from here. The rest of the class seemed to be getting along just as well.

As Harry completed his circle, he saw that he had missed some Slytherins standing towards the back of the closure, near a Hippogriff which looked far meaner than the rest. With a jolt, he recognised Theodore Nott furthest from the creature. Tracey Davis seemed to have successfully befriended the mean-looking Hippogriff and was in the middle of cooing something gently to it when Harry, quite without deciding to, found himself approaching the small group. Millicent Bullstrode, standing between Davis and Nott, looked up at him with a wary scowl. She was tall and broad, with hair that fell messily around her shoulders. She had a serious face, and Harry wasn’t sure he’d ever seen her smile.

“What do you want, Potter?” She asked. Nott’s head jerked towards him at the mention of his name and Harry met his eyes for a brief moment. He had time to register a look of surprise on the other boy's face before he affected a cool look and turned pointedly back to the Hippogriff.

“Er,” Harry said. Now that he was here, he couldn’t quite say what had brought him over. His mind raced. Merlin, why did he always end up sounding like an idiot in front of Slytherins?

“I just… came to look at this Hippogriff.” He said, nodding over to the brutish creature nuzzling into Davis’ hand. “It’s, uh, got a lovely coat.” Harry could feel his face burning as all three of them turned to look at him. _A lovely coat?_ It was true enough, as its bronze fur was definitely one of the most striking in the herd, but one glance at Bullstrode’s unimpressed face let him know she saw right through him. In mild panic, he turned to Davis.

“Ah, you really have a way with it, Davis.” He said, trying to inject a bit of confidence into his voice, as if he regularly wandered over to chat with his Slytherin classmates. He smiled weakly. Davis looked at him with her eyebrows raised and shot a slightly amused look towards the others. She was almost as tall as Nott but had a much more open face, and her eyes were piercing as she studied Harry. Her long brown hair was tied in a neat braid behind her, and Harry immediately had the thought that she was the kind of person who would look completely at home in any situation. “Thank you, Potter.” She said with only a little irony in her voice. “She reminds me of one of our Kneazles at home, actually.” She turned back to the creature with a gentle smile.

“Er, right.” Harry sought around desperately for something to say. “Uh, did you know Hermione has a Kneazle? His name is Crookshanks. He's cute, I suppose, but he’s a little…” Davis’ eyes narrowed at him rapidly. “I mean, he’s great! Very… independent.” He finished, lamely.

“Potter,” Bullstrode interrupted. “Not that this isn’t a great chat and all, but now that you’ve seen the Hippogriff…” Her voice trailed off meaningfully. She was still giving him a suspicious look.

Before he could think of another excuse, Hagrid’s booming voice rang out from the other side of the paddock.

“Righ’, you lot. Now that everyone’s had a chance ter meet one o’ the Hippogriffs, yeh can start gettin’ into pairs. No time ter squabble, just grab whoever’s next ter yeh and that’ll do.”

Davis and Bullstrode shared a quick look and moved together towards the front of the paddock as the rest of the class swarmed slowly ahead.

“Er.” Harry said, turning to Nott. Merlin, why couldn’t he seem to speak in sentences around the other boy?

Nott sighed, his perpetual frown somehow deepening. Harry could see now how tired the other boy looked. Had his sleep been as bad as Harry’s?

“Come on, then, Potter.” He took off after the others without waiting for Harry. 

As the class gathered around Hagrid, Harry spotted Pansy Parkinson scowling next to Crabbe and Goyle; it appeared they had had to make a trio. Harry tried to hide his smirk.

“Righ’, so, Hippogriffs. Now tha’ yeh’ve all met them, let’s talk more ‘bout ‘em. Hippogriffs are native teh Europe, but you find them everywhere these days ‘cause of breeders. Their feathers are mighty useful for a lot o’ things. Can anyone think o’ a use for ‘em?” Hagrid scanned the students hesitantly.

After a moment, Lavender raised a tentative hand. “I think I’ve heard of Hippogriff feathers being used in wand-making, maybe?”

“Excellen’, Lavender!” Hagrid smiled at her kindly. “Two points teh Gryffindor.” Lavender beamed.

“Anythin’ else?” Hagrid asked. The class looked back blankly. There was silence for a few seconds, as Hagrid's face began to fall, before suddenly Nott’s hand raised smoothly into the air, startling Harry.

“Mr. Nott?” Hagrid nodded encouragingly at the boy, perking up.

“They’re used frequently in potions for their stabilising properties. And to make quills, I believe, though they’re rather unwieldy so are mostly decorative.” His voice was quiet but clear, and his eyes seemed to be resting somewhere near Hagrid’s beard.

“Well done, Mr. Nott! Take four points fer Slytherin.” Harry could see Davis shooting Nott an appreciative look, which the boy didn’t seem to notice.

“So, breedin’,” Hagrid continued. As Harry listened, he found his eyes drifting over to the Slytherins more than once. Nott and Davis seemed to be paying careful attention, but Harry could see Bullstrode’s eyes glazing over slightly within a few minutes. They stood loosely apart, but in a way that made it clear that they were still together. Harry felt himself frown. He tried to think back to other classes and meals in the Great Hall he had shared with the Slytherins. Now that he thought about it, he often saw those three sitting near each other without really talking. Along with, sometimes, another boy, Blaise Zabini. Harry wondered why he’d never noticed there was a divide in their year within Slytherin before. Gryffindor seemed much more relaxed and friendly in comparison.

He was jerked back to attention when Hagrid clapped his hands. “So, if one person comes forward an’ picks up some food, the other can pick a Hippogriff and yeh can begin introducing yerself. Mind don’ pick one yeh’ve already met." Nobody moved. Most did not look enthralled at the concept of feeding the creatures. "Well, off yeh go.” Hagrid waved at the buckets set up by the paddock entrance as the students began to reluctantly trickle forward. A burst of fondness swelled up in Harry’s chest as he saw how Hagrid was looking proudly around at his class. He caught Harry’s eye and they shared a grin while Harry shot him a thumbs up. He turned back, still smiling, and saw that Nott was watching the exchange.

“Uh. I’ll just go get the food.” Harry mumbled quickly and took off without looking back. When Harry reached the buckets, he balked. Inside the one on the left was a pile of what looked like small, dead birds of different breeds; and in the other, Harry spotted several very dead rabbits and a few fish.

“Oh, Merlin.” Harry looked up to see his own horror reflected back on Lavender’s face. “Are we supposed to touch these?” There was a note of panic in her voice. Harry really couldn’t blame her. They shared a look of commiseration before Harry shuffled closer. Picking up the edge of his robes, he carefully used it to pick up a few of the birds by their legs. “Yuck.” He said, pulling a face at Lavender, who seemed to be eyeing up her own far nicer robes with a look of dismay.

Harry made his way back over to Nott, who seemed to have selected a Hippogriff with a deep chestnut coat grazing off to the side. He was standing several feet away and looking darkly at the ground. Harry trotted over and immediately felt the Hippogriff’s interested gaze turn onto his robes.

“So, they eat gross little dead birds, apparently. I grabbed one for each of us.” Harry said. He looked between the boy and Hippogriff. “Have you, er, introduced yourself yet?”

Nott gave him an unimpressed look and turned warily to face the Hippogriff. After staring at it for a few moments, he scowled and began stepping forward slowly. His dark eyes were trained unerringly onto the Hippogriff’s steely orange gaze. As he got within a few feet of the creature and showed no sign of further action, Harry began to feel nervous. “Er, Nott? Don’t forget to bow.” Nott seemed not to hear him. The Hippogriff now looked to be getting agitated. Its head twitched sharply to the side as it watched Nott's approach and it seemed to be shifting its weight. Just as Harry started to become truly alarmed, a muscle on Nott’s jaw seemed to twitch and he jerked stiffly into a sudden low bow. The Hippogriff appraised him haughtily for a moment in which Harry didn’t breathe, before slowly dipping its head in graceful mirror of the boy. Nott straightened up sharply and stood watching the creature for a moment. After a few silent seconds, Nott raised a pale hand, slowly, and rested it softly on the neck of the beast. The Hippogriff’s gaze was fixed intently on him as Nott’s hand started to gently stroke across its neck. Harry was mesmerised.

After a few hypnotic moments of stroking back and forth, Nott turned to look back at the other boy. Harry started. Nott looked exhausted, with dark shadows under his eyes and, he noted with alarm, a few hairs sticking out messily on his forehead; but his face was flushed and more open than Harry had ever seen it. He could feel his mouth widening into an irrepressible grin. Nott’s own lips twitched in response, and the moment stretched. 

“Nice one, Theo!” Davis’ voice bellowed suddenly from behind Harry, and Nott blinked. He looked around Harry and nodded vaguely in that direction.

Harry cleared his throat and began the process of introducing himself to the Hippogriff.

“Right,” he said, a few minutes later. “One each?” he asked Nott, holding out one of the birds with his robe. Nott’s lip curled as he looked unhappily down at the dead animals, and Harry had to smother another smile. The boy pinched one leg between his fingers and looked back to where the Hippogriff’s eyes were fixed unerringly on the bird. With a lazy flick of his arm, Nott tossed the bird into the air and Harry jumped as the Hippogriff’s head snapped forward to snatch it in its beak. It gulped its meal down greedily and gave Nott what Harry thought was a very appreciative look.

Harry looked from Nott’s relaxed posture to the Hippogriff now staring at the bird in his robed hand as if hypnotised. He attempted to toss the bird as casually as Nott had. His aim was a little off, however, and the snap of the Hippogriff’s jaws came far too close for Harry’s comfort. He let out a yelp as he pulled his fingers back and tried to keep his balance. A soft snort came from behind him. Shooting a glare in Nott’s vague direction, Harry cleared his throat and stepped forward boldly to pet the Hippogriff again. It nosed at his robes for more birds, but finding none, eventually gave up and accepted the petting with an air of great suffering.

“So, uh, what other elective are you taking this year?” Harry asked Nott without turning around. He continued patting the Hippogriff as the silence stretched.

“What’re you doing, Potter?” Nott’s cool voice replied.

“Huh? I’m… petting the Hippogriff?” Harry said, a touch bewildered.

“I _mean_ , why are you talking to me all of a sudden? And why did you try to pair with me in class today?” Frustration had bled into the other boy's voice.

“Oh.” Harry said. “Well, you know.” He could feel a flush creep up his neck. “No reason, really. I just… realised, I guess, that we’ve never actually talked, even though we’ve been in the same classes for two years. And, y’know, Ron & Hermione aren’t here, so. What better time to try, you know?” He shrugged, focusing on the rhythmic motion of his hand across the Hippogriff’s back. He thought idly that he could see the appeal now. There was something very comforting about such a dangerous, proud creature tilting its head to the side to give better access for Harry to scratch at its ears. “Good boy. Er, or girl?”. Hagrid hadn’t covered how to tell the difference yet. Another sigh came from behind him. Harry was rather getting used to that response by now.

“Girl. The females are larger than the males.” Nott told him. Harry turned to glance at him curiously. “Tracey told me earlier.” He said, looking away.

Harry hummed. “She must really like magical creatures to know that already.”

“She’s obsessed.” Nott replied, sounding so unimpressed that a laugh bubbled out of Harry suddenly. He quickly turned to hide his face in the Hippogriff’s neck.

“Good girl.” He mumbled, as he felt eyes fixed on the back of his head.

***

That night at dinner, Harry felt his gaze drift over once again to the Slytherin table. He couldn’t quite explain this sudden fixation on Nott, and it was beginning to make him uncomfortable. It was true that he’d never really talked to him before this week (or given him a single thought, really); but Harry supposed that was true of most of the school. He had never caught himself staring across at, say, Terry Boot from Ravenclaw, who he’d shared classes with but had never spoken to beyond borrowing the odd quill. But for some reason, no matter where he looked his eyes kept straying back to him. The bruise, then. He had assumed the worst of where it had come from, but maybe there was a reasonable explanation?

And even if there wasn’t, Harry thought with a squirming in his stomach, what business was it of his? You weren’t supposed to talk about these kinds of things, were you? He remembered it being discussed on the television once, when he’d been small. Something about a girl whose parents had been arrested for mistreating her. He remembered stopping dead as he was passing in the hall, struck by the look on her face. She stared at the camera and Harry remembered that she didn’t look scared, or upset, really. She was completely calm; she mostly just looked confused. The girl said something to the man on the telly about it being normal for her, and Harry found then, like now, that a sickly, stabbing feeling had begun squirming in his stomach. Uncle Vernon had scoffed, Aunt Petunia had turned the channel to one of her soaps, and Harry had went on his way. Now, though, thinking of Nott sitting alone across the Hall, steadily eating his dinner and talking to no one, Harry couldn’t help but remember the girl’s face, and the way it reminded him of Nott’s when Harry had seen his wrist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this idea wouldn't leave me alone so i'm hesitantly considering this a WIP now. No idea about how long it'll be yet, but should at least be a few more chapters.  
> I completely destroyed the canon third-year timetable solely to save Buckbeak's life. You're welcome, Buckbeak.  
> I apologise to Hagrid as well for the accent. It didn't seem right not to give him one, but it ended up looking weird anyway so wcyd.  
> Thank you again for reading! Comments and constructive criticism very welcome.


	3. Brief Encounters of the Slytherin Kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he was younger, before he could escape to Hogwarts for most of the year, Harry would sometimes find refuge in the local Library. It was a small and old building, but Harry liked to hide in the children’s section amid all the colourful books and bright displays. One of the Librarians was particularly kind to him and would sometimes sneak him a biscuit or two from under the desk. The other lady who worked there, though, reminded him of Aunt Petunia; she looked at his baggy clothes and his sellotaped glasses and made it very clear that Harry wasn’t welcome in their nice, clean library.

That evening Harry found himself making his first trip of the year to the library. He could admit with only a little shame that he hadn’t spent as much time there as he should. Of course, no one spent as much time in the library as Hermione; Harry and Ron had had to stop her attempting to sleep there on more than one occasion. But it was even more unappealing somehow when he was on his own. Perhaps, he thought, it’s just the association he has with libraries: when he was younger, before he could escape to Hogwarts for most of the year, Harry would sometimes find refuge in the local Library. It was an old and draughty building, but Harry had liked to hide in the children’s section amid all the colourful books and bright displays. One of the Librarians was particularly kind to him and would sometimes sneak him a biscuit or two from under the desk. The other lady who worked there, though, reminded him of Aunt Petunia; she looked at his baggy clothes and his sellotaped glasses and made it very clear that Harry wasn’t welcome in their nice, clean library. Harry tried to only hide there when the nice Librarian was working.

This evening, the Library was quiet. Being only the second week of term, it seemed only the most dedicated students were hard at work. Harry spied a good few Ravenclaws as he checked his list once again. Surely eight was a little excessive, he thought. Hermione hadn’t been quite this crazy about studying last year, and she only had two extra classes now. But, he supposed, if it helped her deal with being bedridden, he figured it was the least he could do. Because of the silly rule that boys weren’t allowed in the girls’ dorms, Harry hadn’t been able to see his other best friend since she had retired on Saturday night complaining of a sore head. Harry was missing her. He had other friends, of course, there was nothing better than just spending time with Ron and Hermione together, doing anything.

He dragged himself out of his morose thoughts as he spotted the first section from his list. He was looking for an Arithmancy book named _Necessary_ _Numbers: volume 2._ He grumbled a little at Hermione already being on the second book; knowing her, she had probably read the first volume over the summer holiday. After spending ten minutes attempting to navigate the bizarrely dusty shelves towards the end of the Arithmancy section – and hiding from the glares of Madam Pince who was doing what seemed to be a sweep of the library for troublemakers – Harry finally managed to find the book. He made his way out of the shelves to find a table for depositing the soon-to-be pile and immediately crashed headlong into a surprised looking Millicent Bullstrode.

“Oh!” he said, from where he had fallen ungracefully across the floor. Bullstrode had retained her feet (she was a lot bigger than him, his pride reasoned) and was now glaring down at him with her arms crossed menacingly. Once he got his bearings back, he saw with more than a little embarrassment that Nott, Davis, and Zabini were sitting behind her at their table watching the scene unfold with varyingly amused expressions.

“Are you spying on us, Potter?” Bullstrode demanded.

“No, of course not!” Harry floundered, picking up the fallen textbook and getting to his feet. “I didn’t see you there, sorry. Are you alright?”

Bullstrode gave him a vaguely disbelieving look and scoffed. “This is the second time today you’ve bothered us. What are you playing at?”

Harry raised his hands placatingly; the effect was somewhat dampened by the large, dusty book he was now foisting at her.

“It’s a coincidence, I promise. Well, not this morning, I mean. Er, then I was just, y’know, near you. In class. But I’m just here now looking for some books, I swear.” He said, trying to look honest.

Bullstrode studied him. Her glare did not waver. Harry shifted nervously from foot to foot. “Are you all here, er, studying together?” He asked eventually.

Bullstrode’s only reply was a raised eyebrow. “Right.” He said. “Of course.”

The silence stretched again. Neither moved.

“What’re you all studying?”

Bullstrode sighed. “Why are you looking for books? I’ve never seen you study here before.” The suspicion on her face was insulting but, he had to admit, probably fair.

Harry brightened at being able to answer something honestly. “Oh, they’re not for me. Hermione is sick at the moment so she’s going spare. Got me picking up some books for her so she doesn’t fall behind.” He said with a nervous laugh, waving the book in his hands a little.

Bullstrode squinted at the title for a moment before she turned an appraising eye on Harry. The silence dragged on for a moment longer, before she let her breath out in another sigh and nodded to his book.

“That volume’s pointless on its own. Get it with Volume 3; they’re linked, it just doesn’t say.” She told him, before turning smartly around and heading back to her table. She took a seat next to the others and began studying as if nothing had happened.

“Er.” Harry said. He blinked after her a few times. “Thanks, Bullstrode!” He called weakly across to her table.

“SHH!” Madam Pince hissed from where she was hovering over a table of nervous-looking Hufflepuff firsties. Bullstrode did not look up.

***

The next night Harry wandered the castle, lost in thought. He’d now had all of his classes and couldn’t help feeling a little morose that Ron and Hermione had missed out on most of them. Divination had been far more disappointing than Care of Magical Creatures, and Harry was beginning to regret copying Ron’s approach of picking whatever class sounded easiest. Although, to hear Dean complain about the difficulty of Arithmancy, he supposed Divination wasn’t too bad. The sick students were mostly beginning to feel a bit better; Madam Pomfrey had announced at dinner that they all ought to be able to return to class by the start of next week. That just left four more days until things could get back to normal.

Harry shivered as he passed a window and saw the outline of a Dementor on the dark grounds below. That also wasn’t helping his mood, he reflected. Fudge’s decision to have Dementors guard Hogwarts to look for Sirius Black had cast a bleak shadow over the school that reminded Harry almost of last year and the fear surrounding the chamber. There was something vile about the creatures. Not to mention, the memory of his collapse on the train was still fresh. As were the sounds of screaming he had heard as he collapsed. He hadn't been able to shake the feeling that there was something dreadfully familiar about it…

Shaking his head, Harry carried on down the corridor. He’d had quidditch practice earlier, and the memory brought a small smile to his lips. He was excited for Gryffindor’s chances this year, and the memory of flying always lifted his spirits.

Slowly, Harry became aware of the sound of muffled crying coming from down the corridor. He stopped in his tracks. It was late – close to curfew – and this part of the castle was usually deserted by now. Quietly, Harry drew his wand and walked further along the hall. The crying seemed to be coming from an unused classroom Harry had never entered. He hesitated – what if they wanted to be left in peace? – and what good would Harry do, anyway? But a sudden sob, louder than the rest, made up his mind. With a very embarrassed feeling in his stomach, Harry stepped forward and awkwardly knocked on the door. The crying stopped immediately.

“Hello?” Harry called after a moment. “Are you alright?” He sounded uncomfortable to his own ears. After a long pause full of silence, a tiny sniff came from the other side of the door. Harry bit his lip and debated with himself for a moment. Well, he'd interrupted them now. Might as well carry on. 

“Look, uh, I can leave you alone if you want, but you probably shouldn’t be crying on your own down here. Uh, it might help to talk about it?” Harry said uncertainly to the door. _Merlin_ , he had no idea what to do in this situation. He could handle Hermione’s hugs and occasional tearing-up, but he didn’t have much experience when it came to comforting people – and he had never comforted a stranger before. He hoped suddenly that he wasn’t making things worse.

The silence stretched taut again. Just as he was beginning to give it up and head back, he heard a quiet shuffling from inside the room, and the door slowly swung open with a slow creak.

A tiny girl stood inside – a first year, surely – with a mess of blond hair and red-rimmed eyes. She looked like she was fighting tears even as she gazed at him. “Er,” Harry said, at a sudden loss. “Are you okay?” She blinked at him, and her face began to screw up. He immediately cursed himself for the stupidity of the question. Taking a moment of inspiration, Harry slowly crouched down to her level. He'd seen an adult do this on telly once when talking to a child, and it seemed to work for him. Harry resolutely ignored the fact that he was probably only two years older than this girl.

“Hi,” He tried again. “I’m Harry. Can I come in?” He gestured seriously towards the door, and was surprised by a weak smile that vanished quickly as the girl shyly stepped back.

After a moment of uncertainty, Harry stood and followed her into the room. They looked at each other in silence for a minute as Harry desperately tried to think of something to say.

“Er… lovely place you have here.” He told her with a weak smile, eyeing the bare, dusty room. She let out a sudden watery laugh, and Harry smiled back at her encouragingly.

Her face slowly fell as the silence dragged on. Harry could see a tear slip silently down her cheek and felt his stomach squirm in discomfort.

“What’s your name?” He asked her, trying to sound gentle.

She sniffed again. “Astoria.” She mumbled, looking at the ground. 

_Shit_ , Harry thought. _What now?_ “Do… you want to talk about it?” He asked. “Sometimes that helps me when I’m upset.” That wasn’t strictly true, he thought with a sliver of guilt, but it seemed to do the trick. With another sniff, the girl took a few steps over to a desk sitting by the side of the room and sat, bringing her knees up to her chest.

“It’s silly.” She said at last. Her voice was almost as tiny as she was. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cry. I just got so sad and everyone was around me having fun and I just…” She sniffed. “I just wanted to be on my own.” She looked miserably over to Harry. _God_ , he thought. _Why couldn’t Hermione have been here instead of him?_ He racked his brain for something to say. He was aware that he had little experience with comforting others, but he had even less experience being the one receiving comfort. He tried to think back to being upset when he was little. Sometimes, when he was much younger, he used to cry when Dudley would hit him, or had said something particularly hurtful. He had ran tearfully to his Aunt Petunia when he had been very little, but he learned quickly that that would only make things worse. She wasn’t completely cold, he thought reasonably. There just seemed to be an emotional block within her when it came to Harry. She would scowl at him and tell him to dry his eyes, and look around uncomfortably as if hoping for someone to come and take him away. Sure enough, Dudley would often appear at that point, crying himself, only to tell tales about Harry being the cruel one. His Aunt’s discomfort would melt away in an instant to be replaced by the far more familiar anger and she’d tell him what a naughty, ungrateful little boy he was, and more often than not he’d be sent to his cupboard. Harry wasn’t an expert, but he felt anger was the wrong approach here.

When Dudley was upset, however… His Aunt would become completely unfamiliar to him. Harry remembered once when they were around seven, when Dudley had fallen off a swing and sprained his wrist (this was a particularly happy period for Harry, as Dudley was unable to pummel him for six blissful weeks): His Aunt had doted on Dudley – even more so than usual – and had given him whatever he wanted until he was better. What stuck out in Harry’s memory, however, were the moments immediately after the accident. Aunt Petunia was at her son's side in an instant, and the look of fear on her pale face was terrifying to the young Harry. He remembered the way she had stroked Dudley’s forehead, the tone of her voice as she mumbled soothing words to him and wiped away his tears. His heart had lurched as he stood there, watching a mother’s love from the outside, too young to understand why it made his eyes sting.

Harry called up this memory as he looked at Astoria’s miserable face. Moving closer, he perched on a desk five or six feet away. “It’s okay to want to be alone.” He told her, gentling his voice and praying this was the right approach. “Why were you sad?”

The girl sniffled again, but seemed to be trying to gather herself to answer. “It’s just… I miss home so much. I was so excited to go to Hogwarts that I kinda forgot that it would mean being away from my mum and dad for so long.” Her eyes welled up again as she turned to look at him. “I want to go _home_. It’s scary here and the people are mean sometimes and I don’t have any friends and my sister is busy, and, and-” She was beginning to hyperventilate.

Harry quickly raised his hands. “Hey, shh, shh. Just, uh, try to breathe.” He told her. _God, homesickness?_ He had no idea how to relate to that. He had never once missed the Dursleys at Hogwarts. Quite the opposite - escaping them was the best thing to ever happen to him. But then a thought struck him: he had, however, missed Hogwarts while at his relatives'. Harry tried to call up how it had felt, during the last two long summers, spending day after day waiting to be able to go home again, desperately rereading letters from his friends and trying not to miss them too much. Hmm. Maybe he did understand homesickness, in a way.

“Yeah,” He said slowly, once she seemed to be breathing normally again. “It’s horrible, isn’t it? But I promise you’ll feel better soon. You’ll see your parents at Christmas, won’t you?” She nodded, her lip wobbling. “That’ll go by so fast, just wait and see. And in the meantime – do they write to you?”

“Yes,” She said, her voice small and her eyes red. “They’ve written every day so far.”

“See,” He said. “That’s great. Clearly they miss you, too. But I bet they wouldn’t want you to be upset, would they?” He asked. Now he was definitely out of his depth. She shook her head. “Right, they’d want you to try and think about other things." She nodded, still looking at her feet. "Hogwarts is a great place. You’re going to love it here. And as for friends, it’s only the first week.” He looked down at her. “Want to know a secret?” She turned to him with a slight frown and nodded. “Every other first year is worried about the exact same thing.” He told her, smiling conspiratorially.

The look of sheer disbelief she shot him was so grown-up on her face that it startled a laugh out of Harry. Her lips twitched in response. It was dim in the classroom, but he thought he could see her face returning to its normal colour.

“I promise! I was so scared I wouldn’t make any friends, but I did. And I didn’t really meet one of my closest friends until Halloween, even. You’ll find people, I promise. What about the kids in your house?”

She looked gloomy at this, but Harry noted with a flash of relief that she didn’t seem to be crying anymore.

“They’re okay,” She said. “Some of them are a little mean, but there’s one girl who seems nice. She has other friends already, though.” Her mouth twisted as she spoke, and Harry felt a surge of sympathy. He remembered what it was like not having friends – the long, lonely years of primary school, watching the other children from the outside.

“Well, you can never have too many friends.” Harry said, reasonably. “I’m sure she’d still like to be yours. Why don’t you try talking to her?” He asked. “Or, like, maybe you could offer to do your homework together?” Astoria considered this for a second with a shrewd expression and nodded slowly.

“She said she thinks transfiguration is hard, and that’s my best subject.” She said, looking up at Harry with a hint of pride.

“There you go, then. Once you start studying together, I’m sure you’ll become friends in no time.” He told her, sounding a bit more confident than he felt. He worried for a moment that this girl might take advantage of her eagerness, but put that out of his mind. Astoria seemed smart enough to suss that sort of thing out on her own.

“Astoria.” A cool voice called from the doorway. Harry jumped and swung his head towards the sound. Standing in the entrance to the classroom was Daphne Greengrass, a Slytherin girl from his year. She was currently watching the scene with an unreadable expression. Harry looked between the two girls, confused.

Astoria, however, looked less surprised. She seemed both embarrassed and pleased to see the older girl. She smiled up at her and then glanced at him. Her smile became shy. “Thanks, Harry. It was really nice of you to stop and help. I promise to think about what you said.” She gave him an earnest smile, which he returned, still rather confused. Jumping up, she grabbed her discarded bag and ran over to Greengrass, practically barrelling into her stomach as she threw her arms around the girl’s middle.

Standing next to each other, Harry was able to connect the dots. The resemblance was strong between the sisters. Daphne had a hand in her sister’s messy hair and was mumbling something to her softly, but her eyes were fixed steadily on Harry, who shifted uncomfortably. Although he and Greengrass had never particularly interacted, she was often found standing behind Malfoy or Parkinson, smirking at whatever cruel thing they had just said. Harry’s instinct was to be suspicious, but then he remembered uncomfortably that Nott had pretty much done the same thing to him and he had been able to put that aside during his bizarre quest to befriend the boy. It was only fair that he do the same for Greengrass. With this thought, he rose and gave her a tentative smile. It was likely more uncomfortable-looking than he’d have wanted, but he felt it was the best he could do.

Greengrass watched him for a moment longer, unsmiling, before giving him a slow, considering nod. She mumbled something to her sister and began turning away. Astoria whirled round to give him a quick smile and wave goodbye before darting after her sister, and then he was alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry: Er


	4. Operation: Infiltration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why did he care, really? So he had had that momentary… connection with Nott. Did it have to go anywhere else? He could just shrug it off and go back to life as normal, and never see the Slytherins outside of the odd class they shared. But there was something unpleasant about that thought. The way Nott had looked, when he realised Harry had seen his bruise; Bullstrode’s suspicion, and the way she seemed to have shelved it, momentarily, to give him advice on Hermione’s book; Davis’ dreamy expression when she cooed at the horrible-looking Hippogriff; even Zabini, who he’d never even talked to – there was something about his cool expressions and how natural he looked in that odd little group. They were simply… interesting. And wasn’t what he said to Astoria earlier true? You can’t have too many friends.

“This might be the silliest thing you’ve ever done, Harry! And that’s saying something.” Hermione’s voice was somewhat shrill in her panic, but the effect was rather ruined when she turned aside to let out a painfully loud sneeze.

Harry looked on in sympathy from where he was perched on his broom, hovering steadily outside the window to the third year girls’ dorms. He could admit he probably looked a little ridiculous, but he’d had the idea during quidditch practice and honestly couldn’t see what could go wrong. He was no less likely to fall from here than he was at any other moment on his broom, and well. He missed his friend.

“It’s alright, Hermione. I don’t even think there’s a rule against it, s’long as I don’t try and come in.” He told her, reasonably. “Anyway, I haven’t seen you in days, and notes aren’t really the same.” He looked studiously at the wall of the castle nearest him as he said this, but he could see Hermione’s smile out of the corner of his eye and felt his face mirroring hers.

“Well, I suppose. I can’t recall it ever being specifically forbidden.” She gave him a considering look. Her eyes were slightly puffy and her voice sounded rather sore to his ears, but she seemed to have colour in her cheeks and her eyes were as alert as ever. It looked like she really would be fine by next week, he thought with relief.

“How have classes been?” She asked eagerly. “It’s been horrid being stuck up here. Flitwick’s charm has been immensely helpful, but he’s stopped responding to my letters asking for additional reading, so it really feels as if I’m falling behind.”

“Hermione!” Harry said, aghast. He couldn’t help but let out a scandalised laugh. “You can’t be writing letters to the professors bothering them about schoolwork.” He felt fondness warring with exasperation – a common combination with Hermione – and leaned forward on his broom.

“Well,” She began, a delicate blush beginning to bloom on her cheeks. “I wouldn’t normally – that would be rude, and surely there are rules against it, else the Ravenclaws at least would be driving the Professors mad with out-of-hours letters, but, well, it’s extenuating circumstances, surely!” She said in a rush.

Harry could feel his face splitting into a grin and laughed again. “Surely.” He agreed. They shared a familiar smile.

“Classes have been fine.” He told her after a moment. “Care was brilliant, like I said. Hagrid will be a great teacher, I bet. He was really good with everyone, even the Slytherins.” He couldn’t help the pride in his voice.

“Oh, that’s wonderful. I admit I was a little nervous – it’s such a change for him, and, well, you know he can be a little careless – unintentionally! – when it comes to dangerous creatures – but I’m so glad it went well. Professor Hagrid!” She said with a disbelieving laugh.

He grinned back at her. “Divination was a bit of a sham, though. Trelawney keeps predicting my death.” He told her, a little gloomy.

“What?!” She cried, sitting up. “Surely not – that’s ridiculous! And from a teacher! I’ve heard people say Divination is a little flaky, but, well, I wanted to see for myself.” She was looking very put-out at this news. Harry was a little mollified. Lavender kept casting him teary looks when they passed each other, and it was beginning to wear on him.

There were a few moments of companionable silence, and Harry took the time to survey the grounds. It was late now, and the nearby pitch and forest looked a little eerie in the dark. He could see shadows moving off in the distance, and realised with a jolt that the Dementors would be out in full tonight, sweeping the grounds. He shifted on his broom nervously.

“Hermione,” He said after a moment. “What do you think of the Slytherins in our year? Apart from Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, and Parkinson, I mean. The other ones.”

Hermione only blinked at this non-sequitur. “Well,” She started, slowly. “I mean, I suppose they can’t all be bad. I can’t say any of the others have done anything to me, personally. Greengrass sort of follows Parkinson around though, doesn’t she? So, she’s probably not very nice, if she’s friends with her. The others, I’m not sure. Why do you ask?” She looked at him with open curiosity.

Harry looked back out to the grounds, thinking. Why did he care, really? So he had had that momentary… connection with Nott. Did it have to go anywhere else? He could just shrug it off and go back to life as normal, and never see the Slytherins outside of the odd class they shared. But there was something unpleasant about that thought. The way Nott had looked, when he realised Harry had seen his bruise; Bullstrode’s suspicion, and the way she seemed to have shelved it, momentarily, to give him advice on Hermione’s book; Davis’ dreamy expression when she cooed at the horrible-looking Hippogriff; even Zabini, who he’d never even talked to – there was something about his cool expressions and yet how natural he looked in that odd little group. They were simply… interesting. And wasn’t what he said to Astoria earlier true? You can’t have too many friends.

He turned back to face Hermione. “I’ve just been thinking. We don’t really know any of them, do we? I mean, Malfoy and that, they’re pretty clearly bullies and bigots, but the others… I guess I’m just curious about them.” He saw her considering expression, and added, “You know, it was Bullstrode who told me to bring you _Necessary Numbers: Vol. 3._ I bumped into her in the library and she said volume 2 was useless without it.” He watched her expression morph into outright curiosity.

“Really?” She asked. She sat up – her bed was by the window, so she had been sitting bundled in blankets during their conversation – and reached across to her table to find the book. “Huh. I had just assumed you grabbed it by accident. Er – sorry.” She said sheepishly, hearing his snort.

“That’s definitely interesting.” She continued slowly. “I suppose there can’t be any harm in getting to know them. Just – be careful, will you, Harry?” Her face was so earnest that he simply nodded and told her he would.

They chatted a little aimlessly for a while longer, and Harry relaxed. It was nice just to be able to talk to her. If only Ron was here, it would be perfect. They were both beginning to get a little sleepy – rather more dangerous for Harry, hovering a hundred feet above the ground – when Harry noticed suddenly out of the corner of his eye a light flaring to life on the grounds below him. It looked like a _Lumos,_ and from its height it could only be a teacher. With a flash of panic, Harry instinctively lurched forward on his broom, and his arm shot through the window into the dorm. Harry and Hermione froze, staring at his protruding limb with bewildered expressions. Slowly, Harry inched forward until his upper body was in the room fully. He turned to Hermione and saw his sudden, growing excitement reflected on her face.

“Well,” He said, climbing properly into the room and landing quietly on the soft carpet. “That’s good to know.”

***

Harry saw his chance the next day. He had had his next Care class the day previously, but the Slytherins seemed to be wise to his intentions and had gone out of their way to avoid him. The lesson was theory-based, unfortunately, so Harry had had little opportunity to broach the group.

Not to be deterred now that he was set on this path, Harry had concocted a plan. It was a bit looser than he’d like – and, well, it mainly involved sitting near the table they had occupied in the library the other night and hoping they’d show up, but, well. It was a start.

His plan was immediately foiled when he showed up near their area of the library and saw that they were already there, quietly focused on their own work. Harry had meant to already be sitting nearby with his books out – a foolproof studious disguise – and when they showed up he could invent an excuse to wander over and study with them. Now, however, he felt his nerves begin to waver. Should he just – approach them? Would they laugh at him, or worse – ignore him? He was considering beating a hasty retreat when the choice was taken out of his hands.

“Harry!” A small voice cried from across the room.

“SHH!” Madam Pince hissed from somewhere in the stacks. Everyone flinched. Blinking, Harry looked towards the first voice and saw the tiny form of Astoria Greengrass waving wildly in his direction. She was sitting next to a vaguely bewildered looking boy and girl – god, they were tiny. Feeling his face flush with the attention of everyone in the vicinity, Harry quickly jogged over to where the girl was sitting.

“Hey, Astoria.” He said weakly as the three tiny faces looked up at him with slightly gobsmacked expressions. Astoria motioned hurriedly for him to sit, and Harry found himself obeying without much thought.

“How come you never told me you were Harry _Potter_?” Astoria demanded in a slightly hurt voice. The other two were still looking stunned.

“Er, well. It didn’t come up, did it? You never mentioned your surname, either.” He said, rather defensively.

The girl thought about this for a moment before seeming to come to a decision. “That’s true.” She said simply, before turning to the other firsties. “This is Corwin Clearwater and Ruth McNess. We’re doing our Transfiguration homework.” She told him with a very unsubtle wink. Harry couldn’t help but grin in response.

“Er, it’s nice to meet you two. How’re you enjoying Hogwarts so far?” He asked.

McNess seemed to blanche at being addressed, and Harry uncomfortably recognised the look in her eyes. Hopefully the shock of Harry Potter sitting at her table would wear off soon. Clearwater, on the other hand, seemed to be channelling Colin Creevey levels of excitement.

“It’s brilliant!” The boy squeaked. He was slightly gangly and had a shock of auburn hair. It wasn’t quite Weasley-level, but Harry nevertheless made a mental note to tell Ron later that a first year was trying to upstage him.

Nothing else seemed to be forthcoming from the small boy, so Harry awkwardly tried again.

“So, er, what’re your favourite subjects?”

The other girl seemed to finally overcome her shock. With a heavy sigh for such a tiny person, she gave a dramatic roll of her eyes and said, “Defence is alright, but the rest of the classes are so _hard_. And they keep setting us essays! Do they ever ease up?” She looked at him despairingly.

With difficulty, Harry stifled a laugh. He supposed he had been just as bad – and Merlin knew Ron was the same – but it was hard to remember how difficult the sudden onslaught of essays and homework had been for him when he had just started. Now classes were getting serious, and he had two more than last year to worry about. He managed to turn his expression into one he hoped was sympathetic.

“Honestly, not really. But you’ll get used to it. And if you’re already in the Library this early into term, you’re probably setting yourself up for success, right?” That sounded suitably Hermione-like, he thought.

The girl didn’t look very pleased with this, but gave him a solemn nod nonetheless. “I suppose.” She muttered.

Another silence descended, this one distinctly more awkward.

“What about you, er, Corwin?” Harry asked eventually.

The boy jumped at being addressed (Harry smothered a sigh) and looked up at him eagerly. “I like Defence too! Professor Lupin is really nice, and his class seems pretty fun. And Charms is so cool.”

Harry was distinctly reminded of Neville at the boy’s shy eagerness and felt himself softening towards him.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself. Er, need a hand with your homework?” Maybe he was channelling Hermione too much now, but all three looked up at him with suddenly hopeful expressions and he couldn’t bring himself to regret it.

***

Forty minutes later, Harry said his goodbyes to the first years and began wandering back the way he had come. He thanked Merlin, not for the first time, that their questions had been relatively straightforward. From the way they were grousing Harry had expected hours of research, but mostly it seemed they hadn’t yet worked out how to answer the questions the way the Professors wanted. Ruth, it transpired, was muggle-born. Harry had stifled a jolt as it occurred to him that he’d never heard of any muggle-born students being in Slytherin before – but there had to be a few, surely? Despite her complaints, the girl was quick to pick up on the material. It seemed she was just struggling – in an all too familiar way – with being thrown into a world of magic, without the years of experience most of her classmates possessed. Harry had been suddenly reminded that he wasn’t a particularly good example when it came to academics. He had quickly devised a method of considering what Hermione would say, then editing it to be a bit less terrifying, and then passed that on to the firsties. It seemed to work alright.

The way they hung on his every word made Harry simultaneously warm and embarrassed. He’d never really considered helping the younger students with their homework, he realised with a sliver of guilt. Though, he reassured himself, he likely wasn’t the best person to ask. He knew he was a thoroughly average student. Perhaps he could achieve more, if he tried, but he had gotten used as a child to doing only the minimum in school – his Aunt and Uncle would glare at him whenever Dudley reported that Harry had beat him in some test (which admittedly wasn’t hard), and when he was little and more than anything wanted their approval, he’d gotten into the habit of aiming low. He supposed he’d never really thought about it seriously since.

Harry was broken from his musings by the sound of a throat clearing. He had quite accidentally brought himself near the table where Nott, Bullstrode, Davis and Zabini were still studying. Now, though, they were all watching him.

He gaped for a second, before reminding himself that this was the reason he had come to the Library at all. “Hello,” He managed to say. “What’re you all studying today?” He congratulated himself on sounding casual.

Bullstrode was watching him again with her shrewd eyes. “What were you doing over there with those first years?” She demanded. ”It looked as if Greengrass knew you.”

Harry was beginning to suspect they simply couldn’t hear him when he asked questions, but decided to investigate more before taking it to Madame Pomfrey.

“Oh, Astoria?” He tried to keep his tone light. “We only met yesterday. I was helping them with their homework.”

Bullstrode snorted. “You?” She asked, unkindly.

Harry tried not to look hurt, but could feel himself reddening.

“I mean,” he said, “it was simple stuff. Just essay writing.” He could tell he sounded defensive, and Bullstrode shot him another considering look.

Harry was quite suddenly fed up.

“Listen,” he said, “I don’t have an ulterior motive or anything. I’m just being… friendly. What’s wrong with that?” He knew he sounded a little petulant, but he couldn’t help it. Merlin, they were so suspicious.

Bullstrode’s eyebrows were raised now, and he could detect a hint of amusement. Flushing properly now, Harry muttered an angry, “Fine then,” and slung his bag over his shoulder to leave.

He was only a few steps away when he heard his name.

“Potter.” Nott’s voice was quiet, but it sent a shock through Harry nonetheless. He felt himself turning without meaning to.

The other boy hadn’t moved, but was looking at him with an inscrutable expression. The others were watching Nott carefully. “Why are you being friendly? Really, I mean. No more lies.” He said it calmly, and Harry found himself walking slowly back to the group.

“Honestly…” he started with a sigh. “I guess I just figure… Why not? You know?” Judging by their expressions, they did not. He continued. “I just, we haven’t actually talked before, have we? And we’ve been in classes together for over two years. I don’t see why we shouldn’t see if we get along or not. And, well.” He knew if he wasn’t already blushing he would be now, but he called on his Gryffindor bravery and forced it out. “You four seem pretty interesting. I’d like to get to know you, is all.”

By the end he was mumbling and looking at the table as he waited for them to respond. God, please don’t let them laugh, he thought with rising mortification.

The silence stretched, and Harry could feel himself getting more and more tense. Just as he was about to make an undignified bolt for the exit, Zabini addressed him for the first time.

“Why not, indeed.” The other boy said with a slightly sardonic smile. He shared a long look with Davis, who was sitting next to him, and then snorted. Davis turned to him with a smile.

“That’s a good point, Potter. I suppose we haven’t spent any time together outside of class. Would you like to join us?” She indicated the empty seat at the head of the table. A choked off noise came from the side, and Harry turned to see Bullstrode shooting Davis and the now-smiling Zabini an incredulous look.

“Er,” Harry said. He decided to go for it before they changed their minds. “Sure!” He edged around the irate-looking Bullstrode and took the proffered seat. The table was rather small, he now noticed, feeling nervously the close presence of the others. Nott was also studying Davis with an unreadable face. Harry sent a weak smile at the girl, which she responded to with a slightly maniacal grin of her own. “Right,” She said simply, apparently deciding to ignore the tension. “We tend to get our homework out of the way first, and then pick a subject to study together for a bit. We alternate the subjects based on each of our worst classes. Today it’s History of Magic.” She waved a hand at Bullstrode, who went red and glared back at her.

Harry mustered his patience and shot her a sympathetic smile. “I’m pants at History too. I can’t help but doze off when Binns is droning on and on.” He pulled a face.

Nott snorted, and cut his eyes over to Zabini, who was now frowning mulishly. “History is such a crucial subject,” Zabini began, with an air of someone who had made this argument many times before. “It’s a disgrace that they let Binns teach it. He’s utterly obsessed with the Goblin wars and we never learn anything important!” He was scowling now, and Harry could see the other three exchanging what seemed to be fondly exasperated looks. It reminded him so utterly of Hermione that he found himself smiling at the other boy, who frowned suspiciously back at him. Harry attempted to straighten his face.

“I’ve never really thought about that.” he admitted.

Zabini snorted. “Most wizards don’t.” he said dismissively. “They don’t care for the past unless it suits them at the present.”

This seemed a rather wise thing to say to Harry, who nodded hesitantly at the other boy. “So, is History your favourite, then?” He asked after a moment.

Zabini shrugged a little. “That, and Ancient Runes, though we’ve just started that.”

“Wow, Hermione takes that. She said it’s tough, which is something coming from her.”

Zabini nodded. “Runes is notoriously difficult. Every so often the Board of Governors meet to query whether it should be saved as an elective for fifth year and up.” He spoke with a slow drawl, and Harry couldn’t detect any bragging in his voice.

“Wow,” he said. “I, uh, think I might’ve made a mistake picking Divination. Seems a bit of a waste of time compared to that, to be honest.”

It was Bullstrode’s turn to snort. “Divination is almost completely useless if you don’t have an innate talent for it, and only some do.” She told him.

“Oh,” he said. “Why do they offer it, then?” He asked, genuinely curious.

She shrugged a little. “You can still master the theory without having a gift for the subject, and some people do find it interesting, I suppose. There are some practical uses.” She conceded.

“I take Divination, too.” Davis piped up. “This lot tried to talk me out of it, but I’ve always found the Prophetic arts interesting.” Her voice was a little wistful as she spoke.

“Did Trelawney predict any deaths in your class?” He asked, wondering not for the first time if maybe he’d been singled out. He shared Divination with the Hufflepuffs, so he figured the Slytherins must be with the Ravenclaws. He couldn’t imagine either group going in for that kind of thing.

“Deaths? No, unfortunately.” Bullstrode’s lips twitched at the vague disappointment in the other girl's voice. “But there was a dead pet predicted, and a few warnings of imminent betrayal.” She sounded rather like she had enjoyed the forecast of misery, though Harry noticed her frowning a little at the dead pet.

“It’s going to be dinner soon.” Nott’s quiet voice interrupted the chatter. The others looked to him as one, and Harry glanced up to find Nott’s eyes flicking away from his face. “We’d better get started.” The others nodded and straightened up in their seats.

“Now,” Zabini began in an only slightly derisive voice, “the Goblin uprising of 1548…”

Harry picked up his quill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are almost no other firsties in 1993 named in the books, so i had to make a few up. I couldn't leave Astoria friendless after all that.  
> Also, there will definitely be no bashing in this fic. Most characters will appear more or less as they do in canon. Some might improve a bit, but no one will get worse. Thank you for reading!


	5. In the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nott shrugged, and Harry noticed, a little resentfully, that even his shrugs were graceful. Every word out of Nott’s mouth seemed deliberate. Harry had never met anyone like him before.

Harry had always loved Hogwarts at night. There was a silence and darkness to the building which might have been creepy to others, but which Harry found surprisingly comforting. Ever since his Christmas explorations in his first year, Harry sometimes found himself wandering the corridors on nights he couldn’t sleep. This particular Tuesday morning, Harry had awoken from a nightmare sweating and desperate to walk some of his nervous energy off. The dream hadn’t been particularly graphic, but something about it had unnerved him. In the nightmare, Harry had been back at Privet Drive; he could tell it was the summer after first year from the bars on his windows and the cat flap on his door. He had been at the door, in his dream, speaking to someone through the cat flap. He can remember the feeling of hunger gnawing at his stomach, and, he thinks with a feeling of shame, that he might have been begging. After an indeterminable amount of time, his door had swung open, and of all people, Professor Lupin had been standing before him. The man hadn’t said anything; just sneered at the boy and shook his head, before shutting the door with a slam. Harry had woken up just as the door collided with his fingers.

It was just a weird dream, the boy reminded himself as he wandered. He was currently ensconced under his invisibility cloak, somewhere in the lower area of the castle. It might have been the fact that that his dream featured the Defence Professor, out of everyone, that had unnerved him so much. The man was usually very kind to Harry. But it didn’t take a genius to work out why he had appeared in the boy’s dream that night, he thought with a frown. They had had Defence the day before. Madame Pomfrey had been right in her prediction; almost all of the sick students were well again by the start of the week. After a very boring weekend sitting with Ron in their room and occasional flights to Hermione in the night, Harry was delighted to have his friends back properly.

During the lesson, though, Harry’s good mood had taken a sharp turn. Professor Lupin had brought them to the staff base and had began a lesson on Boggarts. He had left it to this week, he explained, as it was very important, and he felt the sick students would be at a disadvantage without the chance to tackle a real Boggart. The lesson itself had been probably the most interesting Defence class he’d ever had, right up until the Professor swooped in and stopped Harry from facing the creature.

Harry felt a fresh wave of embarrassment wash over him at the memory. Hadn’t he faced down Quirrell in his first year, saving the Philosopher’s stone? And hadn’t he just last year slayed a basilisk and saved Ginny Weasley’s life down in the Chamber? He scowled at his feet. Out of all the students in his class, surely he had proved himself the most capable of facing down a creature which wasn’t even all that dangerous? He wasn’t sure why he’d felt so ashamed and resentful over Lupin stepping in to stop him. He’s never enjoyed being treated like a child, of course, but for some reason this rankled him more than usual.

Perhaps, he thought, turning down another corridor, it’s because Defence is the one place (outside of quidditch, maybe) that he’s actually proven himself? It’s one thing having everyone think he’s some hero for something he doesn’t even remember, but that had been _him_ in the chamber last year. He’d faced down Tom Riddle. He’d pulled the sword from the hat and killed the basilisk. He’d—

His thoughts were interrupted by a shadow moving out of the corner of his eye. Whipping his head around, Harry saw the flutter of a cloak disappearing around the corner. He froze. A teacher? Merlin forbid, Snape? After a second, common sense caught up to him: the cloak was the wrong height for a teacher. A student, then. Harry felt his curiosity prickle. They were moving carefully and slowly; definitely trying not to be caught. Harry hurried around the corner to follow, without any more thought.

The hallway stretched ahead of him, and Harry was just in time to hear the quiet _snick_ of a heavy door being closed gently. It seemed to be coming from the middle of the corridor, and only one door was visible. Harry crept closer, keeping his footsteps as quiet as possible. The corridor was dark and unfamiliar; somewhere near the Dungeons, perhaps? He couldn’t recall ever having classes here. He was suddenly reminded of last week, with Astoria, and forced himself to still and strain his ears for any sounds of crying.

Nothing.

Feeling even more curious, Harry crept the final few steps to the door. He paused to consider for a moment. What if it was a student just looking for privacy? The thought didn’t seem very convincing. The student had crept down here silently and purposefully, as if they knew exactly where they were going and couldn’t risk being caught. Taking a deep breath, he reached out to grasp the cold brass handle, and quickly swung the door open. Peering intently inside, he felt his mouth fall open.

Theodore Nott was standing at the far side of the room, clearly having jumped to his feet at the sudden noise. His wand was out, and he was furiously scanning the doorway. Harry remembered with a jolt that he was invisible. He watched the other boy with pure surprise for a moment more, before coming back to himself suddenly. Swallowing, he reached above him and slowly pulled off his cloak.

The look on Nott’s face might have been funny in another situation, but Harry took in the dark shadows under the boy’s eyes and his rigid posture and felt a sharp wave of guilt.

“Er.” He said.

Nott simply blinked at him, looking bewildered for a moment more before a thunderous expression took over his face.

“ _Potter?_ ” The boy asked. “What the hell are you doing here? And what – is that an Invisibility Cloak?” He sounded such a mix of incredulous and furious that Harry was immediately and bizarrely reminded of Professor McGonagall.

“Er.” Harry said again, cursing himself for getting into these situations. “Yeah, it’s – an invisibility cloak. It was my dad’s.”

Nott didn’t react to this information. “What are you doing here?” He demanded again, frowning fiercely. “Are you _stalking_ me now?” His face was white with anger and Harry felt himself taking an involuntary step back.

“No!” He said. “I swear! I saw someone come into this room and I was curious. I promise, I didn’t know it was you.” He hoped that Nott could read the truth in his voice.

The other boy’s scowl didn’t waver. “You expect me to believe that? Bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?” He was sneering a little now. Harry felt a flush of indignation. It was an odd coincidence, sure, but Nott was completely overreacting.

Harry eyed the other boy warily and noticed that he had yet to put his wand away.

“Are you going to curse me? Just for interrupting your – whatever this is?” He asked, a little petulantly.

Nott blinked at him and looked at his wand as if noticing it for the first time. After a second he smoothly pocketed it and looked up at Harry. He was clearly still annoyed, but the rage had gone, Harry noted with an embarrassing amount of relief. He cleared his throat.

“You seriously didn’t know it was me?” Nott asked. His voice was wary.

Harry nodded earnestly. “Yeah, I promise. Just saw your cloak.” He tried to look honest. Nott stared intently at him, and Harry felt himself shift a little, uncomfortably. After a few seconds, Nott let out a resigned sounding sigh and nodded once.

“Well, now that your curiosity has been satisfied, you can carry on with whatever important thing you were doing in the halls at one am under an invisibility cloak.” His voice was clipped and vaguely insulting, but Harry simply rolled his eyes at the boy and looked around the room. They were in another unused classroom, it seemed. This one appeared to be a little less dusty than the one he had found Astoria in. Harry felt his curiosity being piqued once again. Was it a Slytherin thing, to hide out in empty classrooms at night?

“I was just walking.” He responded eventually. “I just wear my Cloak so I’m not seen.” He shrugged.

Harry looked over at the other boy to find him studying him. “What are you doing up? And in here?” Harry found himself asking.

“None of your business, Potter.” Nott replied, coolly.

Harry looked at him for a few seconds, then came to a decision. “Alright,” he said, simply. “Mind if I join you?”

***

Ten minutes later, and Harry was wondering if maybe he was too curious for his own good. Nott had been decidedly less than happy at Harry’s request, but after Harry had insisted that he’d be quiet and hadn’t seemed deterred by the other boy’s scathing remarks, he had clearly decided that Harry wasn’t leaving, and had jerkily nodded at a desk across the room from him.

Harry had belatedly realised that Nott might actually want to be alone for personal reasons, but his guilt was lessened after a few minutes of watching Nott simply read from a dusty looking book he’d pulled from his bag. He didn’t appear to have sought out the room out to cry in, at least.

Harry had quickly become bored. His decision to stay with Nott had been rather spur of the moment, and as usual he had let his gut decide for him. As Harry hadn’t brought a book to entertain himself on his walk, he was left with nothing to do except sneak furtive glances at the other boy every few minutes.

After a torturous fifteen minutes had passed in which Harry thought longingly of his bed, Nott finally let out a longsuffering sigh, and said, “I can hear you thinking from here, Potter.” He didn’t look up from his book.

“Sorry,” Harry said, not really meaning it. “Just didn’t bring any books on my nigh-time stroll.”

“You’re the one who insisted on sitting here.” Nott reminded him, sharply.

“Er, right. Yeah, sorry.” Harry sighed. “What’re you reading?” He tried, wondering if Nott was anything like Hermione and wouldn’t be able to resist talking about his reading habits.

“A book.” Nott responded tonelessly. Perhaps not, then. Harry rolled his eyes, but surprisingly didn’t feel all that annoyed. Casting his mind around for something to do, he realised he’d yet to practice the Cheering charm they’d been set for homework last week. Eying Nott nervously, Harry figured the other boy wouldn’t appreciate being his test subject, no matter how much he looked like he could use the Charm. He could at least practice the wand work and incantation, Harry decided.

Nott lasted a full minute of Harry waving his wand around and mumbling under his breath before closing his book with a snap and saying, utterly resigned, “Potter. What are you doing?”

Harry looked over at him with his best innocent expression. “Homework.” he told the other boy, before frowning down at his wand and trying the movement again.

A moment passed. “Do you always do your homework at one am? That would actually explain a lot.” Nott said, sarcastically thoughtful. 

Harry maturely resisted sticking his tongue out at the other boy. “Nope,” he said easily. “Special circumstance.” He tried the movement again and frowned when it still didn’t seem right.

“Relax your wrist.” Nott said quietly. Harry looked up. The other boy was turned toward him now, eyeing Harry’s wand with his customary cool expression.

“Huh?” Harry asked.

“Your wrist. You’re holding it too rigidly. Charms is all about fluidity. The movement needs to feel natural.” Nott said. His voice was surprisingly even, as if he’d given this advice before. Remembering the study group, Harry realised he probably had. Figuring he could use any help that was going, Harry shifted and tried to picture the movement in his mind. Fluid. Right. He could do that. He loosened his wrist a little and tried to lighten his grip on his wand. He cleared his throat and studiously didn’t look at Nott.

“ _Gaudium Pario.”_ He intoned, waving his wand as with as much fluidity as he could manage. A weak yellow vapour flickered out of his wand a few feet, before fizzling quickly in front of him.

“Er,” Harry said, frowning down at his wand. He’d had a better result last week in class.

A snort from across the room made him look up. “I said more fluidity, Potter. Not ‘wave your wand around wildly like a flag and hope for the best’. You need to have a balance.” Nott is smirking at him, not entirely unkindly, and Harry finds himself smiling ruefully back.

“Right. That’s a good point.” He admits.

He tries the spell again, focusing on the idea of balance and keeping his movements a little less erratic. He feels a little silly with Nott watching, but this time a stronger beam of yellow light shoots out of his wand and collides harmlessly with the stone wall across from him. That was way better! Harry peered over at the wall, trying to judge if it might look a bit cheerier than before, but was brought back to himself by Nott saying in a considering voice, “Better, Potter.”

Harry looked up in surprise, and felt his cheeks begin to redden. “Ah, thanks.” He said, shrugging a little. He eyed Nott and wracked his brain for something to say before he embarrassed himself further. “Is Charms your favourite subject, then?”

Nott considered him for a moment, and just when Harry thought he wasn’t going to answer, he shrugged. “I enjoy most subjects, though I suppose I’m best at Charms.”

Harry tried not to let his surprise show. He supposed, had he thought about it, he wouldn’t have expected Nott to like Charms so much. The boy is so serious, and Harry thinks, a little chagrined, that he’s never really viewed Charms as a particularly serious subject.

“How come?” Harry asks, sitting back down in the rickety old desk chair Nott had angrily pointed to earlier. Nott quirked an eyebrow at him in reply. “I mean, how come Charms is your favourite? Or the one you’re best at, I suppose. I would’ve thought you’d like something more… I don’t know.” Harry trailed off.

“What, darker?” Nott seemed amused. Harry smiled sheepishly and shrugged.

Nott seemed to think for a moment. “Charms is a very versatile subject.” He said at last, idly picking up his book from where he’d placed it on a desk. “It can be used for almost anything, and it _is_ used as the basis in so many other branches of magic. In Potions, for example: we use a Charm to light the flame which heats the cauldron; we use the self-stirring Charm to ensure our potions are stirred perfectly; we even use a Charm to keep track of the exact time a potion has been brewing…” Nott shrugged, and Harry noticed, a little resentfully, that even his shrugs were graceful. Every word out of Nott’s mouth seemed deliberate. Harry had never met anyone like him before.

Nott continued after a moment. “The average witch or wizard uses Charms every day for almost everything they do. You can create flight, or completely change something’s appearance, or clean a room with just the flick of your wrist. I don’t see why anyone _wouldn’t_ be interested.” The boy’s eyes looked brighter than they had all night, and Harry could tell this was something important to him. He felt bizarrely embarrassed that he’d never really given the importance of Charms a second thought.

“You’re right,” he said, after a moment of thought. “I’d never really considered how much we actually use Charms.”

Nott’s lips twisted into what was almost a smile. “Most don’t. They’re happy to write it off as so much wand waving and dancing teacups.”

Harry couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m getting déjà vu of Zabini’s speech on the importance of History the other day.”

Harry felt his eyebrows hit his hairline as Nott let out what was unmistakeably a hastily smothered laugh. Harry had never heard the other boy laugh before, and all of a sudden he remembered they were both the same age. Nott had an air about him that made him seem older, but in the dark classroom, watching him scowl and try to smother the quirk of his lips, Harry felt his stomach swoop at how normal he suddenly looked.

Harry’s grin was irrepressible, and Nott rolled his eyes.

“Defence is your favourite, then?” It wasn’t a particularly masterful subject change, but Harry cheerfully let it slide.

“Yeah,” he said, picking up his wand to idly twirl it in his fingers. “It’s not like we’ve had the best teachers, exactly, but I’ve always found it pretty interesting, I guess. And, well. I’m alright at it, I suppose, so that helps.” He shrugged, not looking at the other boy.

“Hm. I’ve heard you’re skilled at Defence.” Nott said simply. Harry felt his face redden, and he cleared his throat. “Which is saying something,” Nott continued, ignoring Harry’s sudden interest in his feet, “considering the Professors we’ve had.” Nott’s look of disgust was enough to elicit a startled laugh from Harry, and the other boy frowned at him reproachfully. Harry suddenly wished that he had shared Defence with the Slytherins last year, if only to see Nott’s face when Lockhart handed out that quiz on his personal life.

“Ah, thanks.” Harry said, clearing his throat again. There was an uncomfortable pause. “Uh, what do you think of Professor Lupin?” Harry asked. He felt his cheeks redden at how awkward he sounded. He hoped Nott wouldn’t think he was an idiot.

Harry was fine talking to Ron and Hermione and the other Gryffindors his age. They were all pretty easy-going, and he supposed it helped that he had had Ron from the start to ease any uncertainty. But during times like this, when Harry was faced with the task of making conversation with someone his age he didn’t know very well on his own, he was forcibly reminded of the fact that he hadn’t had a friendly conversation with anyone else his age until he was eleven years old. The children at primary school knew better than to try and talk to him. He’d get sympathetic looks, sometimes, from some of the kinder boys and girls, but no one was brave enough to make themselves a target for Dudley’s bullying. Harry couldn’t really blame them. Ever since coming to a Dudley-free Hogwarts, however, he’d found himself distinctly uncomfortable with the friendliness of the other students. He had wondered before if that’s why he gets along with Ron and Hermione so much. The latter, especially. Harry had seen his own uncertainty mirrored on her face on many occasions. Perhaps she hadn’t had a Dudley in her school, outlawing possible friendships, but Harry had been able to pick up from some of the rare comments she’d made on her primary school days that they probably hadn’t been all that different to his.

Nott was watching him with a considering expression, and Harry wondered idly if Nott had had many friends before Hogwarts either. “He seems competent enough. More so than the others, at least. It’s too early to tell, though.” The other boy said at length.

Harry suddenly regretted bringing their Professor up as the memory of his earlier nightmare came back to him. “Yeah.” he said, scowling down at his wand. “Early days.” He looked around the room a little, hoping something would jump out to distract him from this topic, but the room remained cold and dusty. Harry let out a gusty sigh. “Did he have your class face Boggarts, too?” He asked at last.

Nott blinked, and raised his eyebrows at Harry knowingly. “He did. Did you not enjoy the lesson?” He asked, sounding a little amused. Harry scowled over at him.

“It was fine, I guess.” He turned his scowl back to his wand. Several moments passed, and Harry snuck a look over to Nott. He was sitting, watching Harry, still with a slightly amused look to his eyes, and he was clearly waiting for Harry to continue.

Harry lasted five more seconds. “It’s just, well, I didn’t actually get to _do_ anything. Guess he thought I couldn’t handle the Boggart, or something.” He tried to sound unconcerned but knew he had failed when he saw Nott roll his eyes in his peripheral vision.

“Potter.” Nott’s voice was rather long-suffering for someone who hadn’t spent all that much time with him, Harry thought moodily. “Have you ever considered looking beyond the length of your own nose?”

Harry blinked up at him. “Huh?” he said, unintelligently.

“Can you think of no other reason Lupin might’ve stopped you from facing the Boggart, other than him apparently thinking you’re too weak?” His voice was dry.

Harry thought about it for a minute. “No?” he said, at last.

Nott sighed again. “Potter. What would your Boggart have turned into?”

“Well,” Harry said, shifting a little. “A Dementor, I think.” He was a little embarrassed to admit this. Nott shared a dorm and table with Malfoy, after all, so had probably been a direct witness to Malfoy’s dramatic re-enactments of his meeting with the Dementor on the train.

Nott cocked his head to the side and looked rather thoughtful. “Hm.” he said, after a moment. “Most people would assume – including, I’d bet, Professor Lupin – that your Boggart would take the form of the Dark Lord.” He said this plainly, and Harry blinked.

“Well, I thought that at first, but… Well, I’m sure Malfoy’s mentioned what happened on the train. A million times, probably.” Harry grumbled with his own eye-roll.

“Malfoy does talk about things other than _you_ , you know, Potter.” Nott said, sounding amused.

“What, like his father?” Harry scoffed. “Or how Pure the Malfoy blood is?” He smirked. Nott let out another of those smothered laughs, and Harry’s smirk turned into a full-on grin. Making Nott laugh felt almost like a victory, in a way it never had with his other friends. Maybe it was because of how grumpy the other boy always seemed.

There was a remarkably companionable moment of silence, before Harry sighed again. “So, he thought I wouldn’t be able to handle it turning into Voldemort?”

Nott’s flinch was full-body, and he scowled over at Harry fiercely. Harry blinked, and after a moment Nott simply rolled his eyes. “No, you idiot.” Harry frowned. “How do you think it would’ve gone if an apparition of the Dark Lord had appeared in a class full of third years? Lupin didn’t want to cause a panic, most likely.”

Harry was a little gobsmacked. He hadn’t thought of that. He felt his cheeks redden again. Nott might’ve had a point about him being an idiot. “Oh.” He mumbled.

Nott sighed again. “Did he let everyone bar you have a go?”

Harry nodded. “Even Longbottom?” Nott asked, sounding curious.

Harry frowned. “Yeah, his was Snape.” He cut his eyes to Nott, suddenly wary that Nott would take offense, but the other boy simply looked thoughtful.

There was silence for another few seconds, and Harry found the question bursting out of him without consciously thinking it first. “What was your Boggart?”

He immediately regretted the question as Nott’s open look shuttered. “None of your business, Potter.” He sounded cold, and Harry felt a squirm of guilt.

“Er, sorry.” He said, sheepishly. He supposed it might be a rather personal question, though Nott had had no issue asking _him_. Harry had brought it up in the first place, he supposed.

There was a distinctly uncomfortable silence. Harry eventually looked up from the dusty desk in front of him to see Nott watching him with an unreadable expression. “I didn’t face it, either.” The other boy said at last, startling Harry.

“Really?” He asked. Nott simply raised an eyebrow. “Did Lupin stop you too, or…” He trailed off.

Nott surprised Harry with a snort. “No,” he said, sounding amused again. “I think he only tried that tactic with your class.”

Harry didn’t understand, and Nott could clearly read it on his face, as he continued. “Come on, Potter. Your deepest, darkest fear, on display for all your peers? That’s a disaster waiting to happen.” Harry frowned. He supposed he hadn’t looked at it like that.

“Did anyone in your class do it?” He asked.

Nott nodded slowly. “A few volunteered when Lupin asked. But most weren’t interested. He told us we didn’t have to if we’d rather not at the start of the lesson, and most didn’t.” He shrugged.

“He never said that to us.” Harry responded with a frown.

Nott snorted again. “I’d imagine he knew that if he’d offered to let some of you sit out, you’d all immediately demand to face the Boggart to prove you weren’t cowards, or something similarly ridiculous.”

Harry opened his mouth to argue, then slowly closed it, looking rather sheepish. “You’re probably right.” He admitted. “Did he offer that for every other class, do you think?”

"Probably." Nott said with a simple shrug. "I can’t imagine the Ravenclaws caring all that much about being brave, and I’m sure the Hufflepuffs would pitch a fit if they were forced to reveal their greatest fears to the rest of their class.” Harry snorted at this, imagining the outrage from the Hufflepuffs. Nott was probably right.

They fell into a companionable silence again, as Harry thought about what he’d learned. He had to admit he felt a lot lighter after realising Lupin hadn’t really thought him weak. He wondered, if he had faced the Boggart and it had turned into a Dementor after all, if he would’ve been able to cast the counter. He remembered the chill that had went through him on the train, and the faint screaming, and was suddenly rather grateful to Lupin for having stopped him.

“D’you think there’s a way to stop Dementors?” He mused aloud, after a few moments. “Like, a way to banish them, or something, like a Boggart?”

Nott looked thoughtful. “I think there’s a charm, but it’s very advanced, if I remember right. NEWT level, probably.”

“A charm, eh?” Harry said, with an easy grin. Nott rolled his eyes, but Harry noted that he didn’t really look annoyed. “Think you could cast it?”

Nott gave him an unimpressed look. “Just because I enjoy Charms doesn’t mean I’m a prodigy. If it’s advanced, I’d imagine not.”

Harry wasn’t so easily swayed. “I bet you’d have a good shot at learning it, though. Definitely more likely than me.” Harry said with a self-depreciating smile.

Nott smirked. “I’d imagine it’d be Defence, really, so who knows.”

Harry smiled back at him, and felt a warmth spread through him at the unexpected compliment. Both boys fell into a thoughtful silence.

After a few moments, Nott straightened slowly in his chair and cast a tempus charm. Harry was shocked to see that it was almost three am.

“Shit.” Harry said, sitting up suddenly. “Er, I should probably get back.” He said. He had no idea why he felt rather disappointed. Nott simply nodded, and after a moment began picking up his own things. Harry suddenly wanted to ask the boy what he was doing up in the middle of the night, reading in an unused classroom. He opened his mouth to ask, but slowly closed it as he saw Nott pack his book gently into his satchel. The boy had dark shadows under his eyes and looked paler than usual. It was obvious, like Harry, that he hadn’t slept much. He supposed the reason why was none of his business. Nott hadn’t demanded it of Harry, so the least he could do was return the favour.

Soon both boys were outside the door to the classroom, and Harry felt himself pause uncertainly. He felt he should say something but had absolutely no idea what.

Nott put him out of his misery. “Go to bed, Potter.” He said, slinging his satchel over his shoulder and rolling his eyes at the shorter boy.

“Er, goodnight!” he whisper-shouted after the other boy, and Harry could have sworn he saw the corner of a smirk on the boy’s face before he disappeared out of sight. Harry watched the space where he’d disappeared for another moment, before donning his Invisibility Cloak and beginning the trek back up to the tower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well! I've had a hard time working out where to go with this, and was considering leaving it at chapter 4. But now I have a plan, so hopefully I'll have at least somewhat regular updates. No idea yet how long this might be, but I won't leave it abandoned. I utterly made up the Cheering Charm, unfortunately, and stole Tempus from every other fic writer bc it's so useful.  
> I hope everyone is taking care at the moment and staying safe!


	6. Tea and Turmoil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This near the forest edge, the light took on a greenish tinge from where it infiltrated the canopy. The air was cooler in here, and Harry had the unpleasant sensation of being watched. Branches snapped under their feet as the students gathered round Hagrid, and soft animal sounds could be heard in the distance. Harry felt the presence of magic so strongly here that he could almost taste it on his tongue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features a few unpleasant scenes with bugs and an instance of vomiting, so be warned. 
> 
> One scene is also pretty similar to the books; I've tried to largely paraphrase and shift things around, but some similarities are unavoidable.

The following morning, Harry nearly fell asleep face-first into his porridge. He was saved only by the kindness of Neville, who had gingerly blocked his forehead from its dangerous descent, before nudging Harry to wakefulness.

“Alright, Harry?” The other boy asked, somewhat alarmed. He pulled his hand back quickly as Harry blinked over at him.

“Mmm?” Harry responded, sleepily. The other boy was watching him carefully and Harry made an effort to look awake. “Oh, yeah, thanks, Neville.” he said around a yawn.

“You went to bed at the same time as me, mate. How’re you so tired?” Ron asked from where he sat across from him, digging into his fifth sausage with enthusiasm.

“Oh, I, er, woke up early. Went for a walk and couldn’t get back to sleep.” Harry said with a shrug, taking a long sip of his pumpkin juice in case Ron asked any more questions. Hermione was frowning up at him from where she was reading under the table. She was still hectic about ‘catching up’, despite quite clearly already being ahead of all the Gryffindors in their year.

Thankfully neither Hermione nor Ron decided to question his story. He hoped to tell them about his late-night meeting with Nott later, after he’d had a chance to think about it properly. It wasn’t exactly a secret, he reasoned, but at the same time he couldn’t imagine the other boy would want Harry banding about the fact that he sometimes snuck off to read in unused classrooms when he couldn’t sleep. It seemed a little private for the Gryffindor breakfast table - and Harry got the impression that privacy was something the other boy might value greatly.

Their first class that day was Care of Magical Creatures, and Harry couldn’t wait for Ron and Hermione to finally have Hagrid for a teacher. After a hasty breakfast, the Gryffindors trooped down towards Hagrid’s hut as a group. It had come to light the morning before that almost their entire House year had taken the elective combination of Divination and Care. As these were widely considered the slightly less academic choices, this was met with a little chagrin amongst their peers. The only exceptions were Hermione, who rather cagily refused to answer how she could have possibly signed up for every class, and Dean, who was taking Arithmancy instead of Divination, much to Seamus’ dismay.

By the time they arrived, most of the class seemed to be present. Harry’s good mood took a dive when he noticed Malfoy standing haughtily at the side of the group, with his usual hangers-on in tow. The class was almost double in size of last week’s, with the return of the sick students, and Harry desperately hoped it wouldn’t put Hagrid off.

Harry just had time to notice the approach of Nott’s group from the corner of his eye, before Hagrid appeared and began the lesson.

***

“That went well,” Hermione mused as they trudged back across the Grounds towards the castle an hour later. Harry had to agree.

They had been studying Bowtruckles today. Not quite as exciting as giant horse-bird hybrids, he had to admit, but still miles better than most of his other classes. They had followed Hagrid a few dozen feet into the Forest as he explained the history of the creatures. Ron had looked distinctly unimpressed with the location of their class, and kept nervously scanning the ground and squinting between the trees, despite both Harry and Hermione assuring him that they weren’t far enough in to meet any Acromantulas.

They had been led to a copse of several trees which, Hagrid explained, were home to a family of Bowtruckles. This near the forest edge, the light took on a greenish tinge from where it infiltrated the canopy. The air was cooler in here, and Harry had the unpleasant sensation of being watched. Branches snapped under their feet as the students gathered round Hagrid, and soft animal sounds could be heard in the distance. Harry felt the presence of magic so strongly here that he could almost taste it on his tongue.

The lesson had initially gone smoothly: Hagrid had explained the theory first, managing to make it somewhat interesting, before coaxing several of the tiny creatures into the light with the promise of woodlice. Both Ron and Lavender let out equally disgusted noises at the appearance of the bugs, to the delight of Malfoy, who snickered loudly from where he was standing at the edge of the group. Harry shot him a poisonous glare, which he returned in full measure. Quite soon, however, they were split into groups, given a small container of woodlice (Ron and Lavender weren’t the only students to gag at this) and were given strict instructions on how to lure the creatures out of hiding. Harry had happily taken custody of the insects (his cupboard had had its fair share of woodlice), and they set to work. Hagrid had been quite clear about what to do, and especially what _not_ to do. Bowtruckles were rather sweet-looking creatures, resembling a bundle of entwined branches and twigs more than anything, but they were apparently fiercely territorial of their habitats. If their tree was threatened, they would become vicious, and would apparently go straight for the eyes, Hagrid had cheerfully warned them. The insects were their favourite food, and the only things which would placate them if they became stressed.

Most of the class took in this information gravely, but Harry noticed, with a sinking feeling, that Malfoy was smirking to his cronies. Harry also noticed, with a sudden smirk of his own, that Malfoy was casually standing as far as possible from the jar of insects.

Harry’s group worked well, and soon the Bowtruckles were happily darting from branch to branch, snacking cheerfully on the proffered woodlice. They were enthralling to watch. Huge oak-brown eyes peered at them suspiciously from their heads, which Harry was sure looked exactly like tiny logs. They moved effortlessly from branch to bow, reminding Harry of the monkeys he had seen at the zoo on Dudley’s eleventh birthday. With a casual glance around, Harry tried to spot Nott’s group through the dim green light. He eventually found them a few trees over. Unsurprisingly, Davis was in her element, and seemed to be in the process of trying to entice a nervous-looking Bowtruckle to eat from her hand. Nott was standing to the side with Bullstrode, but seemed to be watching Davis’ attempts with a surprisingly amused expression. Just as Harry was about to turn back to his own group, Nott glanced up, and their eyes met. Harry felt his face flush as he quickly turned back to his task. He only had a few moments to feel embarrassed, however, before the peaceful scene was shattered by a sudden loud shriek from somewhere behind him.

The class whirled round as one, only to see Draco Malfoy wrestling with what looked to be an outraged bundle of twigs. Harry exchanged a look with Ron, who’s shock had quickly morphed into delight.

Hagrid began lumbering in their direction with a look of alarm. “The woodlice, Parkinson!” he yelled, gesturing wildly at the container in Parkinson’s hands. The girl had a look of utter panic on her face to rival Hagrid’s, and she seemed to be rooted to the spot, watching Malfoy’s fight with the tiny creature with shock. The little Bowtruckle seemed to be putting up a fight; Malfoy already seemed to have a slight scratch across his nose, and his pallid face was flushed red. The blonde boy let out a squeaked, “Pansy!” and the girl came to life with a sudden jerk. She scrambled to open the container, and with a flourish she pulled the lid free and swung her arm out, flinging the wriggling contents all over the boy.

Malfoy froze. The class stared in horror at the sight. His eyes were wide and completely still on his normally uptight face. No one breathed in the clearing, and the only sound which could be heard were the gentle squeaks from the agitated creatures grouped in the tree above Malfoy. The previously-enraged Bowtruckle, meanwhile, seemed rather delighted by its change of fortune, and quickly abandoned Malfoy entirely to scurry around the forest floor for the scattering insects.

“Er,” said a slightly distressed looking Hagrid, after a moment of silence. Malfoy had yet to move. Harry noted with a touch of revulsion that he could see at least one of the insects in Malfoy’s carefully styled hair. Parkinson was looking at her friend in complete horror, with her hands covering her mouth. It might’ve been funny if the class weren’t frozen to the spot. The moment was finally broken by Ron, next to Harry, suddenly bending over and retching into a nearby bush.

“Righ’,” said Hagrid, decisively, as half the class turned repulsed looks onto Ron. “Mr. Malfoy, if yeh’re not hurt, head on up ter the castle ter get cleaned up, there’s a lad. Migh’ wan’ to nip into see Madame Pomfrey, jus’ in case. Miss Parkinson, bes’ go with ‘im.” he added, gently, to the still frozen girl. Parkinson blinked, and slowly reached out to hesitantly take Malfoy’s arm. The blonde boy’s eyes were still wide, but he jerked into motion without more than a blink. The two slowly left the clearing without looking back, as the other students watched on with open mouths. Once they had gone, they looked round at each other.

Hagrid cleared his throat. “Righ’, well, back ter work, you lot.” he said, with a soft clap of his giant hands. The students blinked back to the moment, and slowly began picking up where they’d left off. Harry noticed more than one expression morphing slowly into delight.

Harry was brought back to present by Ron’s snort from his side, as they finally reached the doors to the castle. “It went ’well’?” Ron asked, shooting Hermione a disbelieving look. He still looked rather pale, but his expression was dreamy. “That was bloody _fantastic_.”

***

That afternoon, before dinner, Harry made his way slowly towards the Defence classroom. Their last class of the day had just let out, and dinner wasn’t for another half hour at least, so Harry knew Professor Lupin likely wasn’t busy. Since breakfast, his mind had kept returning to his conversation with Nott the night before. He still felt a little embarrassed at how quickly he’d assumed the worst of his teacher. Nott was probably right about him not looking at the big picture, he thought, rather miserably. It was just that Harry hadn’t really had much reason to put a lot of faith into adults, exactly. He knew objectively that they weren’t all necessarily out to get him, of course, but he also knew that at the end of the day, the adults around him couldn’t be trusted to do what was best.

His Aunt and Uncle were obvious – they were happy to treat him horribly just because he had been born with magic. Had he ever went to them for advice, or because he was upset, he imagined they’d be so upset they’d send him to his Cupboard out of sheer shock. Some of his teachers at Primary school had been kind, but none were willing to do anything serious about Dudley, or about how obviously unkempt and miserable Harry was. The teachers at Hogwarts were hardly better. Harry respected several of them – the Heads, minus Snape, were all kindly and intelligent people. But Harry didn’t truthfully know Flitwick or Spout all that well, and as fond as he was of McGonagall, he couldn’t help but remember how easily she had dismissed him back in first year when he had warned her about the stone. Hagrid might have been Harry’s favourite adult, but even he had to admit that the man’s judgement wasn’t always the best. And Dumbledore was wise, but Harry knew the man had to put the school first – he had already admitted that there were things he couldn’t tell Harry, and Harry understood that, even if he didn’t like it. Even the Weasleys, kind as they were, had seven other children to worry about. They had let him stay, the summer after first year, but Harry still remembered how Ron had complained of his parents not believing his worries about Harry.

No, Harry knew he was on his own when it came to adults. So, although he felt a little guilty for thinking so poorly of his Defence Professor, he couldn’t help but feel it was a little justified. Nevertheless, Harry found himself with the bizarre urge to speak with the man. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was going to say, but he knew he’d feel better if he at least confronted him.

Before Harry could get too lost in his thoughts, he had arrived at the door to Lupin’s office. Here, Harry hesitated. He wasn’t exactly the type of student to pay unprompted visits to his teachers. Would Lupin be mad? Would he think Harry was being odd for seeking him out? Harry was saved from talking himself out of his plan by a soft voice spoke from down the hall.

“Harry?”

He turned to see his Professor walking towards him, with a pleasantly surprised look on his face.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Potter?” Professor Lupin asked, moving forward to unlock the door.

“Er,” Harry said, suddenly at a loss. Lupin saved him by gesturing ahead of him into the office.

“Please, come in. Take a seat.” He nodded distractedly at the chair across from his desk. Lupin was carrying what looked to be a stack of essays, which he deposited on his desk with a relieved sigh.

Not knowing what else to do, Harry followed. The office itself took Harry by surprise; the teacher’s offices he’d been in previously - namely, McGonagall’s and Snape’s - had been stiflingly formal and eerie, respectively. Professor Lupin’s office, however, was immediately appealing. The window let in enough light that the posters depicting magical creatures looked cool, rather than creepy; and Harry spotted a few interesting-looking framed photographs of what appeared to be wizarding duels. The most striking thing about the room, however, was the number of books littering every surface; there were books in piles across the desk and books stacked on top of filing cabinets; Harry even noticed, bizarrely, a book balancing on the window ledge, left half open. Harry was forcibly reminded of Hermione when he spotted several that didn’t even look related to Defence at all. Harry dragged himself out of his investigation to find that Professor Lupin was watching him with a small smile. Feeling himself redden, Harry hastily took a seat.

“Right,” Lupin said. “Would you like a cup of tea, Harry? I was about to make one for myself.” He turned and began busying himself with a kettle on the counter behind his desk, looking over his shoulder to catch Harry’s answer.

“Er, alright.” Harry mumbled. “Thanks,” he added hastily, picturing Hermione’s frowning face at his lack of manners.

“It’s no trouble,” Professor Lupin replied, cheerfully.

The man seemed to be placing his wand against the kettle. He tapped it once along the spout, and the kettle immediately started to boil. Harry was forcibly reminded of Nott’s comment the night before about Charms being used for everything. Without quite meaning to, he blurted, “Was that a Charm, sir? To heat the kettle?”

Lupin turned around with two steaming cups and a look of mild surprise. He watched Harry with an unreadable expression for a moment, before his face smoothed out into polite curiosity, and he sat down.

“Yes, Harry. That was a variant of the Heating Charm, which is mostly used specifically for boiling water. It’s mainly used for boiling kettles and other domestic chores. Do you have an interest in Charms?” he asked, placing one mug in front of Harry. He gestured towards the packets of sugar and a tiny bowl of milk he’d brought with him. Harry quickly scooped the condiments into his cup with another mumbled, “Thanks.”, and hastily took a sip.

“Er, not especially,” he answered after a moment, with a shrug. “I have a, er, friend, who is, though, and he mentioned that they’re used for everything domestic, pretty much.”

Professor Lupin smiled. “I dare say your friend knows what he’s talking about. Charms is a tremendously useful subject.” Lupin paused, and Harry looked up from his tea. He seemed to be deciding something. After a moment, he said, would-be casually, “You know, Charms was your mother’s favourite subject in school. She was very fond of it.” He took a long sip of his tea, his amber eyes staring fixedly at the table.

Harry felt a thrill go through him – one he felt whenever someone surprised him by mentioning his parents. “Really?” he blurted, leaning forward. “Did you know her, sir?” He tried to study the Professor across from him. Was he around the same age as Harry’s parents? Harry wasn’t sure, but Lupin did look rather old, judging by the grey in his hair and lines on his face.

Lupin paused again, before setting his cup down. “I did, as a matter of fact. I was friends with your parents in school. Especially your father.” He seemed to swallow and turned to fiddle with the sugar on the desk. “I’m sure you’ve heard this before, Harry,” he said, not looking up. “But you do look remarkably like them.”

Harry was surprised by a slight sting in his eyes. He cleared his throat, and mumbled, “Thanks, sir.” He’d never met anyone who knew his parents from school, he realised. Hagrid and the other teachers knew them as pupils, but this was the first person he’d met who knew them as peers, beyond, he supposed, Snape, who didn’t really count. He felt a thrill of excitement go through him at the things Lupin might be able to tell him.

Before he could completely lose himself to his imagination, Lupin cleared his throat. “So, Harry. Now that we’ve got our tea, what brings you by my office today?”

“Oh, er.” Harry said. After the surprise revelation about his parents, he had to forcibly drag his mind back to the task at hand. “Right.” he said. He sat up straighter and placed his tea gingerly on the desk, gently nudging a stray book out of the way to make room.

“I just wanted to ask, about the other day… with the Boggarts…” This was harder than Harry had expected. Lupin was frowning now and seemed to be watching Harry carefully. The air felt a little cool in here, reminding him of a cheerier version of the dungeons, and he couldn’t help but fiddle with the empty sugar packet as he spoke.

“It’s just…” he started, staring at the desk in front of him. “I was worried at first when you didn’t let me face the Boggart that you thought I wouldn’t be able to manage.” he said, in a bit of a rush. “But, uh, you just thought it would turn into Voldemort, didn’t you?” Harry added quickly, as he’d noticed Lupin open his mouth to speak.

Lupin closed his mouth, and gave Harry a surprised look, before smiling at him, gently. “Oh, Harry.” he said, kindly. “It wasn’t that I didn’t think you’d manage. You seem like a very capable young man, from what I’ve seen – and heard.” Harry shifted uncomfortably under the praise. “Yes,” he continued after a pause. “I assumed your Boggart would take the form of Lord Voldemort. I take it I was incorrect?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

Harry cast a nervous look up at him. In his experience, adults didn’t enjoy being proven wrong, but Lupin simply looked back calmly, waiting for his response.

“Er, well. I think it would’ve been a Dementor, actually.” he said at last, a little sheepish.

Lupin’s eyes widened, before a thoughtful look came over his face. “A Dementor? Yes, I suppose that makes sense. I must commend you, Harry.” He said, smiling at the boy. Harry just blinked back at him.

“Sir?” he said, unsure.

“Your greatest fear is fear itself.” he said. “That’s rather wise of you, I think.”

Harry had no idea how to take that. It seemed a little silly to commend him for being _scared_. “Er, thanks, sir.”

There was an uncomfortable silence, and Harry took a sip of his tea so he wouldn’t have to break it.

“Did you just want to ask about your Boggart, Harry? Or was there something else?” Lupin asked at length, sounding a little amused.

Harry shifted again. “Well, it’s just, I was thinking… If you hadn’t stopped me, if the Boggart had turned into a Dementor, I might’ve, well…” He shrugged, feeling suddenly very warm, and cleared his throat.

Lupin took pity on him.

“Harry,” he said, gentle but firm. Harry looked up automatically at his tone. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. I don’t know a single adult witch or wizard who enjoys the company of Dementors. They’re horrid creatures, and it’s no sign of weakness to be affected by them.” Lupin’s voice was steady and resolute. Despite everything, Harry found himself nodding along.

Another silence fell. He took another sip of his tea without looking up. It was actually pretty good, with an unusually mild flavour.

Lupin sighed. “You’re friends with Hagrid, aren’t you?” he asked, sounding like he already knew the answer. Harry blinked at the non-sequitur.

“Yeah, he delivered my Hogwarts letter.” he responded after a pause. Where was Lupin going with this?

“Well,” Lupin continued. “I seem to recall that Hagrid spent some time in Azkaban last year. Have you talked to him about his experience with the Dementors?” he asked.

Harry had to think back. Hagrid had never mentioned his brief stint in Azkaban. At the time he had been so happy to have the half-giant back, and afterwards, well - it seemed so personal.

Harry shook his head. Lupin seemed unsurprised. “It might do you some good to talk to him, Harry. I expect he has a strong reaction to them, too. And I’m sure he wouldn’t mind you simply asking.”

Harry took this in with a slow nod. Lupin might actually be right. Perhaps he’d been remiss in never asking Hagrid about Azkaban. It was personal, sure, and Harry was only a student, but maybe Hagrid would appreciate the chance to talk about it? And Harry could admit, after this brief talk with Lupin, that it might do him some good, too.

“Now, was there anything else?” Lupin asked. The man was remarkably patient, Harry thought with surprise. He knew the Professor probably had other things to attend to, but he simply watched Harry like he didn’t mind the intrusion at all. Harry felt his cheeks begin to redden, and he realised he’d torn up the sugar packet into several small pieces. Flushing properly now, he hastily swept the pieces into his hand and thrust it in his pocket, hoping desperately that the Professor hadn’t noticed the mess he’d made.

“Er,” Harry said, after the silence had stretched a little too long. “Just one more thing, Professor, if you don’t mind…”. He tried to smile a little sheepishly.

Lupin simply returned his smile. “Not at all, Harry. Go ahead.”

Harry paused as he thought of how to broach the subject.

“My, er, friend,” he began. “The one who likes Charms? Well, he said that he thought there was a Charm for banishing Dementors. He said it was really advanced, though. I was wondering, maybe, if you knew it?” Harry looked up at him keenly. Lupin had a thoughtful expression on his face.

“I do,” he said, slowly. “Your friend wasn’t wrong, though, Harry. It’s an extremely advanced piece of magic. It isn’t even taught until NEWT level, and even then, only for students with an aptitude for Charms and Defence. Many wizards and witches never get the hang of it.”

Harry continued to look at him eagerly, undeterred, and the Professor sighed. “It’s called the Patronus Charm. When cast, it conjures a Patronus, which is a sort of shield that protects the caster. It takes the form of an animal, one which, it’s said, reflects the caster’s nature.”

Harry was transfixed. An animal shield? That sounded incredible. It would definitely come in handy if he had to come face-to-face with a Dementor again. Could he possibly learn something so advanced, though? It seemed rather doubtful, but not even trying seemed wrong.

“Sir,” he began, but was interrupted by the faint ringing of the bell which signalled dinner. Lupin seemed as surprised as Harry was, blinking quickly and casting a Tempus.

“Ah, it seems it’s time for dinner.” The professor said, rising from his seat. “Shall we?” Seeing Harry’s expression, he smiled. “We can continue our conversation on the way.”

Harry smiled at the man, relieved, and they headed for the door, which Lupin locked behind him. Once they had started walking, Harry turned to the man, who, he noticed with a little embarrassment, was slowing his walk to match with Harry’s shorter stride. “Sir, do you think there’s any chance I’d be able to learn the Patronus Charm?” he asked, hesitantly. “I know it’s advanced, but…” he trailed off. He hoped desperately that the man might say yes, but if it was as hard as he and Nott had said…

Lupin smiled sympathetically down at him, looking unsurprised at his question, and Harry’s stomach sank. “I couldn’t honestly say, Harry. I think it would be extremely difficult for someone of your age to master the Charm, but…” he grimaced at Harry’s hastily covered look of dismay. “Well, who’s to say? I hear you have a gift for Defence.”

Harry knew the man was only being kind, but he couldn’t help the blush that was rising on his face. Quickly, he said, “Do you think… is there any chance you might help me to learn it? Or just point me in the right direction, maybe?” He tried to hide the hope in his voice, but knew he was unsuccessful by the look on the man’s face.

Lupin frowned thoughtfully for a moment. They were getting closer to the Great Hall, now, and Harry could hear the sounds of hundreds of children sitting down to eat.

“Let me think about it, Harry.” Lupin said at last. “It would take some preparation. We can’t exactly ask a Dementor to sit with us to practice.” he said, reasonably. Harry nodded quickly, trying to hide his excitement. He didn’t want to push his luck.

“In the meantime,” Lupin said, with a bizarrely mischievous smile, “Why don’t you start looking into the Patronus Charm. Any advanced knowledge would be beneficial. I’m sure the Library ought to have something.” He saw Harry’s face at this and let out a chuckle. After a moment, Harry couldn’t help but smile back at the man, ruefully.

They had reached the doors to the Great Hall at last, and Harry shifted nervously on his feet.

“Alright, sir. I’ll look into it. Er, thanks for, you know…” he said, shrugging as he fiddled with the strap of his satchel.

“Any time, Harry.” Lupin said, kindly. “My door is always open to you, if you fancy a chat. Now, go on and enjoy your dinner. I’ll see you in class.”

Harry smiled at the man. “Thanks, Professor. See you tomorrow!” he said, before disappearing into the crowd, heading for the Gryffindor table. As he spotted Ron and Hermione bickering cheerfully with a Harry-sized space between them, Harry had to admit that he felt a lot better than he had earlier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remus, at last!
> 
> I would also like to highlight the fact that all the Gryffindor third years are in Care and Divination, and that's crazy. I had to rescue at least one of them for reasons that will become apparent in later chapters, so Dean it is. 
> 
> I'm attempting to post a new chapter when I have the next one written, so that my posting schedule might be more even. Meaning the next is already written, so hopefully that'll be out soon.
> 
> I'd also like to take this opportunity to denounce JK Rowling's recent statements on twitter. It's hard to see her outright transmisogyny while posting Harry Potter fanfiction, so the least I can do is clarify that i don't support her views in the slightest. I wish only safety and happiness for all trans people. 
> 
> Once again, hoping everyone stays safe in these troubled times! Until next time.


	7. Consequences

“D’you ever think about why so many Slytherins go Dark?” Harry asked later that evening, as he, Ron, and Hermione lounged near the fire in the common room. The space was beginning to empty as the night wore on, and it was the perfect volume at which to have a somewhat-private conversation. The fire kept them comfortably toasty, and it was moments like this, warm and surrounded by his closest friends, that Harry felt most at home.

Both his friends looked at him with bemused expressions, though Hermione’s, unsurprisingly, quickly turned thoughtful. Ron spoke first. “Dunno, mate. They’re just sort of sneaky, aren’t they? And loads of their parents are Dark, so I guess it sort’ve gets passed down.” he said, shrugging a little.

Harry wasn’t convinced. “I don’t think being sneaky means you’ll go Dark though, does it? I mean, Fred and George are plenty sneaky, aren’t they, and they’re hardly Dark wizards.”

Ron’s frown deepened. “I guess…” he said, uncertainly.

Hermione sat forward a little, a look of consideration on her face. “I don’t suppose every Slytherin could actually be Dark, or they’d just disband the House, surely. But enough of them must’ve been – at least at some point - to get their reputation. I suppose it didn’t help when You-Know-Who started recruiting from within his House.”

Harry nodded slowly. “Everyone knows what Salazar Slytherin thought about teaching Muggle-borns and Half-bloods. I suppose it’s hard to know who goes to Slytherin just ‘cause they’re cunning and ambitious, and who goes ‘cause they agree with the Founder and want to be there because of _that_. There must be a mix of the two, surely. I mean, Crabbe and Goyle have never struck me as particularly cunning or ambitious. Unless their ambition is to follow Malfoy around for the rest of their lives, in which case I suppose they’re doing fantastic.”

Ron snorted, and Hermione nodded grimly. “And don’t forget those whose parents have pressured them to get sorted there." she added after a moment.

Harry made a noise of agreement, and Ron turned towards him. “Why’re you thinking about that stuff anyway, mate?” he asked, a bemused frown still on his face. He was looking a little betrayed; normally Hermione was in charge of the random philosophical discussions in their group, and Harry and Ron always presented a united front.

Harry shrugged, and began twirling his wand idly. “’S just, when you two were sick, I ended up having to partner with a few Slytherins in class, and they were surprisingly alright. Not Malfoy’s lot!” Harry added hastily, seeing Ron’s expression. “I mean, uh, Nott, Bullstrode, Davis, and Zabini.”

“They were ‘alright’?” Ron looked rather aghast. “Are you sure, Harry? I mean, they’re Slytherins. ‘Cunning’ is sort’ve their thing.” He pulled a face. “What if they were just pretending to be nice to you as a trick? You know, make friends with you and then do something to embarrass you, as some sort of prank?” Ron’s normally friendly face looked uncharacteristically worried.

“They weren’t trying to make friends with me, though.” Harry pointed out. “And they weren’t exactly friendly, just… civil. They were actually suspicious of _me_.” Harry could see Ron’s offense at this and pulled a face. “I’m explaining it wrong. It’s just, I realised that if we had to, we could get along fine, and then I started thinking about how it’s weird to _ignore_ them just because most of their House are gits. And _then_ I bumped into some Slytherin first years, and they mostly just reminded me of Colin Creevey, y’know? Little and excited. Hardly dangerous evil masterminds.”

Ron still didn’t look entirely convinced, but most of his worry seemed to have faded, and now he was just frowning. Harry took that as a good sign.

“Anyway, I, er, ended up studying with them in the Library one night last week.” Harry admitted, bracing for their reactions. They didn’t disappoint.

“ _Studying?_ ”, they said in unison, with alarmingly different tones.

“In the Library? Really, Harry?” Hermione looked as if Christmas had come early.

“With the _Slytherins_? Did they kidnap you or something, mate?” Ron, conversely, was looking at Harry as if his best friend had been replaced by an irate Hippogriff.

“Er, yes, in the Library, and no, I wasn’t _kidnapped_. I _have_ studied before, you know.” Harry huffed, a touch defensive.

“When?” Ron asked, sounding honestly surprised. “Where was I?”

“Yes, when, Harry?” Hermione added with a hurt look, as if Harry had been organising some secret underground studying ring and had decided not to invite her. She exchanged a bewildered look with Ron, and Harry felt a moment of fear over the rare display of the two teaming up, before wracking his brain trying to come up with an answer.

“Er, well, I mean, I’ve _probably_ studied before. During exam time, surely.” Harry said in the most reasonable tone he could muster.

“Bugger off.” he said with a scowl when Ron only snorted.

A thought seemed to suddenly occur to the other boy. “But it’s _two weeks_ into term, mate! What on earth could they have been studying?” He sounded horrified. Hermione, on the other hand, was looking rather impressed.

Harry let out a sigh. “I was just trying to break the ice with them, to be honest. I think they study together _every_ night.” He pulled a face at this, and saw his feelings mirrored by Ron. Hermione hummed far too wistfully for his comfort, and the boys shared looks of panic. Merlin help them if Hermione got that idea into her head.

“And, well. Last night, I actually bumped into Nott…” Harry began, fiddling with the strap of his watch. His friends listened thoughtfully as he gave a summary of his interaction with the other boy. He skimmed over the details (Hermione had shot him a pointed look when he mentioned being unable to sleep, and Harry knew an interrogation of his sleeping habits was in his near future) and mainly focused on how Nott had helped him with his Cheering Charm, and their conversation about Boggarts. He perhaps overstated Nott’s helpfulness and made the boy seem a little more friendly than he rightfully was, but for some reason Harry was rather desperate for his friends to get a good impression of the boy.

When he finished, Ron was frowning again and Hermione seemed thoughtful.

“I don’t know, mate… He sounds alright, from what you said, but he still gives me the creeps.” Ron shuddered, and Hermione rolled her eyes at his dramatics.

“Ronald,” she admonished, “if Harry wants to make a new friend and thinks he’s harmless, then we should support him.”

Harmless wasn’t a word he’d ever associate with Theodore Nott, Harry thought grimly, but he was hardly going to correct her.

It was Ron’s turn to roll his eyes. “I’m not _not_ supporting him, Hermione. I’m just saying, you’ve got to be careful, Harry.” Ron’s face was very serious, and Harry felt a rush of fondness for his friend.

“I will be.” he said. The conversation had gone remarkably well, and he felt like riding that feeling of success as far as it would take him. “Now, who’s up for a game of Snap?”

***

“I can’t believe we just did that.” Harry said for the third time as he trailed after a rushing Hermione.

“We didn’t have a choice!” the girl fumed as she stormed away from their classroom. “What a sham, honestly! I can’t believe she gets away with teaching that rubbish. It was a complete waste compared to my Arithmancy class.”

Hermione was scowling fiercely, and Harry wasn’t sure he’d ever seen her so offended.

He was still somewhat in a daze.

Their Divination lesson had started normally, with Harry a great deal more cheerful having Ron and Hermione finally by his side. However, within ten minutes, Harry was beginning to worry that Hermione was attempting to give them a demonstration of spontaneous human combustion. They were reading tea leaves again, and like in previous lessons, Trelawney was predicting disaster and devastation at every turn. Hermione had worn an unusually serious expression at the beginning of the lesson, but by the time Trelawney got round to reading Harry’s soggy tea leaves (which apparently portended the sudden and grizzly death of someone close to him this year) her scowl was so severe that even their Professor was giving her a wide berth.

Harry had tried to assure her that he didn’t mind his bleak fortune, but that seemed to only anger the girl further. Two minutes later, Trelawney made a passing reference to Harry’s Grim and the ‘tragedy of a life cut short’, Harry flinched at the reminder of the menacing black dog, and that was it for his future in Divination. Hermione had _yelled_ at their Professor; Harry still couldn’t quite believe it. But what had perhaps surprised him most was that after Hermione had gotten her (considerable) feelings off of her chest, she had turned firmly to him and said, in a no-nonsense tone, “Harry?” with a stiff motion to the door. Taking one look at her face, Harry grabbed his things, shared a baffled look with Ron, and followed their friend out the classroom and down the ladder. The class stared after them silently with open mouths.

Which left Hermione storming down the corridor with a meek and very confused Harry in her wake. “Er, Hermione?” Harry tried. She didn’t make any indication of having heard him. What little he could see of her face from his position trailing behind her made him want to scuttle off to someone a little less terrifying, like Snape perhaps, or Aragog. Biting his lip, he gathered his courage and made another attempt. “Hermione, just wait a second!” he panted as they began descending a staircase. “Please?”

This seemed finally to do the trick.

Hermione spun round, and Harry felt a moment of pure surprise when he noticed tears trailing down her cheeks. Her face was red, and she looked like she might break down at any moment.

“Hermione?” he said quietly. “What’s the matter?”

Her rage-filled face finally crumbled.

“Oh, Harry!” she wailed, and threw herself at him. He was frozen for a moment, finding himself with a face full of bushy hair. After a second, he got his bearings and hesitantly began patting her back, thoroughly mystified.

“Er,” he said. She clung to him for a few seconds more, and then released him with a slightly sheepish look. 

“I’m sorry, Harry.” the girl began, hastily wiping at her eyes. “It’s just… when you told me last week that Trelawney was predicting your _death_ , it just got me so upset. I hoped maybe you were exaggerating or something, because surely a Professor would have more tact, but hearing her be so _blasé_ about it… Oh, Harry. It’s just, after everything that happened last year, and the year before…” Hermione trailed off, sniffing. Harry suddenly felt terrible.

“Hermione, I’m sorry. I never thought that it might be _upsetting_ for you.” he said, awash with guilt.

This didn’t seem to be the right thing to say. Hermione scowled, and gave him a very unimpressed look. “It’s not _your_ fault, Harry. You don’t have to apologise. I just had to see it for myself. And then, well. I know you pretend these things don’t upset you, Harry, but I know they do. And you don’t deserve to have to listen to that nonsense.”

Harry cleared his throat. “They don’t _upset_ me…” he mumbled, tugging at his collar. Judging by Hermione’s withering look, this wasn’t the right response either.

He let out a sigh, and ran a hand through his hair. “Thanks, Hermione. That actually… means a lot. You’re right.” he said with a shrug. “I won’t go back. But, er. What do we do now?” The shock was finally wearing off, and worry began curling through his gut; surely they’d be in serious trouble for this? They had left a lesson halfway through. Not only that, but Hermione had had some rather choice things to say about the subject itself, and Harry felt rather certain that dropping a subject didn’t usually involve storming out ten minutes in.

Hermione also seemed to be calming down enough to start feeling embarrassed. “Well,” she said, cheeks tinging pink, “it perhaps wasn’t the most _traditional_ method, but you _are_ allowed to drop electives within the first two weeks of term. We should speak to Professor McGonagall as soon as possible so we can arrange our new timetables.”

That posed an entirely new problem. “Er, Hermione – what am I supposed to take instead of Divination?”

Hermione frowned thoughtfully. Unsurprisingly, talk of academics seemed to cheer her immensely, and Harry noted with relief that her crying seemed to be over for now. She began walking again, thankfully at a more sedate pace, and Harry followed.

“Well, there are three electives you could pick from. Muggle Studies, Ancient Runes, and Arithmancy. Muggle Studies wouldn’t make much sense for you, as you were Muggle-raised, so I’d suggest one of the others.” she informed him, pragmatically. 

Harry’s heart sank. Arithmancy or Ancient Runes? Did he want to die of boredom, or die of boredom in another language? What a choice.

Hermione must have read his gloomy expression for she rolled her eyes pointedly. Harry thought of her previous upset and tried to muster up some enthusiasm.

“So, er, which would you recommend?” he asked. He sounded rather miserable to his own ears, but Hermione gave him a fond look, so he supposed she must’ve known he was trying.

“I’ll admit, Arithmancy is my favourite, but both have their value. I’d suggest discussing it with Professor McGonagall. She’ll be able to explain the merits of each subject and determine which might suit you better.”

They were nearing their Head of House’s Office, now. The castle was silent around them, and their footsteps were echoing loudly off the stone floors. If you weren’t careful, you could announce your presence from several corridors away in certain parts of the castle. Harry resisted the urge to drag his feet and tried to muster up a smile for his friend. “Thanks, Hermione. I’m sure we’ll work something out.”

The two students arrived at the intimidating oak door to McGonagall’s office. Luck seemed to be on their side; they could see light escaping from under the door, signalling the Professor was there and not off teaching. Harry didn’t want to imagine their Professor’s face if they had had to interrupt a lesson to give her their news.

The two looked at each other nervously. Despite her earlier confidence, Hermione was beginning to look a little pale. Harry knew how she felt: McGonagall on the warpath was a sigh to behold, and Harry remembered with a sudden sinking feeling in his stomach that Hermione’s boggart had been a disappointed McGonagall. Merlin, she’d risked facing her greatest fear for _him_? Pushing down a squirm of guilt in his stomach, Harry took a deep breath, gathered his Gryffindor courage, and knocked.

***

The Library that evening was unusually quiet, even for so early into term. The sun had come out that afternoon, and most students had flocked to the grounds to soak up what would probably be the last nice weather of the year. The castle was beautiful in the sunshine; the light brought out the colour in the stone walls, and the grass and Lake were almost blinding with their vibrancy. Ron and Hermione were out there now, lounging by the lake with the other Gryffindor third years; Harry had been with them too, until Hermione’s increasingly pointed looks had driven him to sigh and head for the Library with only a little grumbling.

It was the deal he had worked out with McGonagall; the Professor had been unsurprisingly unimpressed with their tale. Hermione had began looking increasingly pale as the Professor told them off with sharp words and even sharper frowns, and Harry couldn’t stop picturing her as Hermione’s Boggart.

“It was my fault.” he blurted, before his brain could catch up with him. Hermione shot him a wide-eyed look and he belatedly realised he’d cut the Professor off mid-sentence. He froze. “Er.”

After a very still moment, McGonagall raised her eyebrows and gave him an expectant wave of her hand. Harry sunk a little further into his chair.

“Well,” he began, “it’s just that Professor Trelawney kept predicting my death, you see, and I didn’t _mind_ —“ Hermione’s look could cut glass.

“I mean,” he corrected hastily, “I suppose it wasn’t exactly nice to hear, and well, I think it was just a little… upsetting, for Hermione to listen to.”

He cleared his throat and looked resolutely at his lap. The grandfather clock along the far wall felt blaringly loud as it _tick – tick - tick_ ed its way through the tense silence. Hermione shuffled next to him, and he could feel the Professor’s gaze boring into the top of his head.

“Well,” McGonagall said at last, and Harry looked up in mild alarm at the softening of her tone. Their stern Professor had a rather characteristically irate twist to her mouth, but Harry (who was an expert on adults being mad at him) was relatively sure that it wasn’t directed at either of them.

“It’s done now,” the teacher continued, with a hefty and taxed-sounding sigh. “And we _are_ still technically within the window of switching classes; so,” she said, with an air of finality. “Have you given any consideration as to which elective you’d prefer instead, Mr. Potter?”

That led to this evening, with Harry slouching through the dusty dim Library while his friends enjoyed the sunshine by the Lake. When it had become embarrassingly obvious that Harry had not, in fact, considered which elective he’d prefer, McGonagall had resignedly ordered him to spend the rest of the evening looking through the course textbooks until he had gotten a better grasp of his options. He only had the rest of the night to pick, which seemed rather a lot of pressure to Harry, but McGonagall had only had to raise a formidable eyebrow at his perturbed expression, and he had hastily agreed.

The shelves stretched on ahead of him, and Harry could see Pince a few stacks away, turning a corner with beady eyes, out on the prowl for trouble. Thankfully, his Hermione-sanctioned trip to the Library last week made things easier tonight. He remembered vaguely where the sections for Runes and Arithmancy were and had only a little trouble finding the shelves.

It was only when he was staring down the rows and rows of tomes that he began to realise what it was he had done. Goodbye easy-pass, he thought morosely. He could just imagine the extra work he was in for. With a long-suffering sigh, he set to work.

After fifteen minutes of aimlessly scanning the shelves for anything interesting (which was not a lot), he had managed to secure both core texts and half a dozen books on the subjects which he had selected on the grounds that they looked less intimidating than the rest.

Lugging them up from where he’d dumped them in a pile on the ground, Harry headed out in search of a seat. He could admit that he’d wondered in the back of his mind, as he rummaged through book after book, if the Slytherins would be at their table today as usual, or if they were also out enjoying the sun like most of the students. He didn’t have to wonder long. As he made his way out of the stacks into the nearby study area, he spotted them immediately; Bullstrode seemed to be holding court today, and the others were alternating between looking at her, their books open in front of them, and writing languidly in their notebooks. Harry had noticed last week that they all seemed to take note-taking very seriously; each had an expensive-looking leather-bound notebook of differing styles which were utterly unfamiliar to Harry, who mainly used the cheap spiral-ringed notebooks he’d found near the tills in Flourish and Blotts on his first trip to Diagon Alley. Harry expected the Slytherins had went elsewhere for their stationary. 

They hadn’t spotted him yet, and Harry hovered uncertainty at the edge of the open space. Would it be alright to just… walk up to them? He wouldn’t second guess himself with his Gryffindor friends in this situation, but he supposed, after a moment, that he had only really hung out with the Slytherins all together once before. That hardly made them friends, despite the internal turmoil they’d thrown him into recently. With the way they (especially Nott) had tipped his life upside down over the last few weeks, ‘acquaintances’ felt like too light a term.

The decision was taken out of his hands when he spotted Pince glaring suspiciously at him from where she hovered behind a table of indifferent seventh years, who were looking so overwhelmed with whatever they were reading that Harry thought a full-on wizards duel could take place in front of them and they still wouldn’t look up.

Harry decided he’d best do something before Pince got it into her head he was up to no good.

Zabini was the first to spot him coming over Bullstrode’s head. A slight raising of his eyebrows betrayed his surprise, but the boy contented himself with an amused smirk while Harry approached.

He paused uncertainly a few feet from the desk and cleared his throat. Just say something normal, he told himself sternly.

“Hi,” he said as the four students turned to him, “mind if I join you?”. He smiled awkwardly and nodded to his pile of books.

Bullstrode was glaring again, but by this point Harry was becoming rather oblivious to it, like with Neville’s blushes, or Ron’s frequent eyerolls. The foursome traded unreadable looks, before Davis smiled up at him and nodded cheerfully over to the seat he had occupied last time.

“If you’d like,” she said, sounding rather amused. Harry wasted no time in taking the seat, feeling his face start to burn as they all continued looking at him. The atmosphere was a little less tense than last time, which Harry found perhaps unreasonably reassuring. Maybe he’d be able to wear them down through sheer exposure?

Harry finally gave in and turned his eyes fleetingly to Nott. The boy was watching him with a characteristically blank expression, but Harry thought he could detect the tiniest twitch of his lip. Was that a repressed smile, or a sneer?

Bullstrode dragged him out of his thoughts with a hefty sigh. “Do your friends know you’re here, Potter? I know they’re not sick anymore.” Her eyes narrowed, and her tone was accusing. “What’re you doing studying with us when you could be off with them, blowing something up or whatever it is Gryffindors do with their free time?”

Davis laughed, and Harry sent them both a glare. “I need to study tonight, and what’s the point in studying alone when I could just sit with you? I thought I already explained that I’ve not got an ulterior motive.”

Bullstrode pursed her lips, and Harry added, churlish, “And we don’t blow stuff up, either.”

Zabini joined in with Davis’ laughter, this time. Bullstrode opened her mouth, possibly to list off every Gryffindor-sourced explosion in recent memory, but Nott cut her off. “Leave it, Millie.” he said, voice surprisingly soft. Bullstrode looked at the boy for a moment, before rolling her eyes and giving another sigh.

Nott turned to Harry at last, and he felt himself sitting up straighter in his seat.

“What’re you studying, then, Potter?” Nott asked. He had a way of looking at people, Harry thought, that made it impossible to ignore him. His eyes were steady, and his face blankly interested; he looked straight at someone, unwavering and eerily still, and Harry was suddenly put in mind of a nature programme he’d caught a few minutes of several years ago on the telly. In the show, he’d seen a tiger stalking its prey. She had moved only by degrees, muscles moving with a graceful fluidity which he’d never seen elsewhere. But the thing that struck Harry most was her eyes; utterly still, and utterly focused. Nott seemed to watch people in the same way – blank, motionless, and missing nothing. Harry couldn’t work out if he wanted to meet that gaze, stare back to show he had nothing to hide, or avoid it at all cost; it seemed the latter was winning.

“Ah,” Harry said, looking down at his uninviting pile of books. “Hermione and I, er, sort’ve dropped Divination today, so McGonagall says I have to pick another elective by tonight.” He could still feel Nott’s eyes on him as he spoke. He had the bizarre urge to try and flatten his hair, which he knew was likely a complete mess by this time of day. Instead of giving into this ridiculous notion, he picked up the topmost book from the pile and waved it a little at the other boy to give his hands something less dangerous to do.

Nott’s eyebrows were raised when Harry finally gave in and darted a look back up.

“’Sort’ve dropped’ it?” Nott asked with a slight twist to his lips. Harry thought he could detect a hint of humour, so he shot the boy a wavering smile in return.

“Er, yeah.” he returned, feeling his cheeks heat a bit with remembrance of his and Hermione’s display. “Bit of a long story. Wasn’t the most gracious exit.”

They were all watching him, now. Harry looked around the room desperately, hoping that something would pop up and cause a distraction, but he had no such luck. Turning back to the others, who now all (barring Bullstrode) looked rather amused, he sighed and gave them a brief account of his departure from the class. By the end, Davis and Zabini looked delighted, Bullstrode thoughtful, and Nott, bizarrely, was frowning. Merlin, he hoped the other boy wasn’t such a swot that he’d be annoyed at Harry for storming out of class.

Bullstrode, surprisingly, was the one to respond first. “Potter, you’re an idiot.” she said, looking faintly exasperated. Zabini snorted, and Davis swatted his arm fondly.

“Wh- hey!” Harry replied, stung.

“Why did you return to the class when it was clear the Professor had it out for you?” she demanded, frowning disdainfully at him like she was taking his incompetence personally.

“Er,” Harry said, thrown a little. “Well…” he thought for a moment. “I s’pose it never occurred to me that I could drop it. It’s not like we haven’t had awful teachers before. I mean, there was Lockhart last year – he was an idiot. And Quirrell, in first year. His teaching was rubbish, _and_ he tried to murder me. Actually, so did Lockhart. I suppose.” He frowned. “But Quirrell had Voldemort on the back of his head like some sort of gross reverse mask, so I guess he was worse.”

All four flinched at the name, and Harry felt a thrill of alarm at their expressions. Had Harry not been looking closely (and he firmly tried not to think about why he was), he would’ve missed Nott’s sharp intake of breath. The other three were watching him carefully. The sudden tension at the table was palpable, and Harry felt himself swallow reflexively as he realised he’d said something wrong. What though? Was it using Voldemort’s name? Or calling him ‘gross’? He felt a rush of indignation at either of those causing offense, but recalling the way Nott had looked suddenly struck, Harry felt his justified anger wash away to be replaced by uneasiness. Perhaps not, then. The wooden seat underneath him suddenly felt uncomfortably hard, and he shifted a little to find a better position. Harry could hear his own heartbeat, and the low murmur of conversation at the next table over suddenly seemed rather loud.

He risked another glance up, and found that Zabini was the only one looking back at him. Nott was aiming his steady gaze at the table, face completely void of emotion. Davis and Bullstrode were, in turn, watching the pale boy, each with a frown. Harry felt his own eyebrows rise when Zabini suddenly shot him an unmistakably friendly grin.

“On the back of his head, Potter, really?” the boy said, his voice an amused drawl.

Harry nodded, slowly. Had Zabini missed the atmosphere?

But the other boy simply snorted again. “That explains the turban. And, God, the _garlic_.” He turned an amused look onto Davis, who was watching him with an unreadable expression. They looked at each other for a moment, Zabini’s smile still easy and pronounced on his face, before the boy turned to Nott, and Davis looked away. Throughout this exchange, Bullstrode hadn’t taken her eyes from the silent boy.

“Doesn’t it, Theo?” Zabini asked, mildly. His voice was quieter than before, but there seemed to be some sort of challenge to it. Harry blinked in surprise. He wasn’t sure what kind of bizarre exchange was happening, here, but he felt very suddenly out of his depth.

The two girls seemed to be holding their breath, but Zabini’s polite gaze didn’t waver. After a moment, Nott looked up to meet the other boy’s eyes.

“I suppose it does, Blaise.” Nott said, slow and deliberate, eyes never leaving the other boy’s bright gaze. Zabini’s smile visibly softened, and Harry looked away, wondering suddenly if he was encroaching on a private moment. God, he thought, utterly confused; why couldn’t Snape have just paired him with a Hufflepuff, that day? He would happily bet that they didn’t have these kinds of mysterious, veiled conversations.

The tension was broken rather anticlimactically by Bullstrode. “Well,” the tall girl said, turning back to Harry and sounding pragmatic. “it was still silly to wait so long to drop it. What do you think you’ll pick, instead?”

What followed was a surprisingly non-torturous hour of discussion, in which Harry was mostly content to listen to Bullstrode, Zabini, and Davis bicker happily about the merits of the third year electives. Bullstrode seemed to be firmly in the camp of Arithmancy, whereas Zabini argued for the benefits of Ancient Runes. Davis seemed to have no real interest in either subject, but interjected occasionally to put forward the case for Muggle Studies, of all things. Harry was able to piece together that the girl had been split, last year, between that class and Divination. When Harry looked mildly surprised at this (before trying to wipe his expression to something neutral, realising his surprise was probably rather rude), Davis simply snorted, and kindly told him that she was actually a Half-blood, like him, and had an interest in Muggle culture, as she’d never really known any of her Muggle family.

“Oh,” Harry had said, still rather dumbstruck. There was an awkward pause. “My family are all Muggle,” he told the girl, who cocked her head to the side in response.

“I’d heard that. I suppose you’d know all about Muggle life, then.” she said, sounding intrigued. Harry had a sudden flashback to Mr. Weasley cornering him in the Burrow last year to interrogate him about electric toothbrushes, and nodded warily back, but Davis simply smiled, and the debate continued over them.

Nott interrupted rarely; over the course of the discussion he seemed slowly to return to normal, his far-away gaze somewhat returning to the present. Harry found himself watching the other boy more than he likely should. He couldn’t seem to help it. The strange mood that had taken over during the Slytherins’ bizarre exchange had dissipated quickly, but Harry had noticed each of the others watching Nott out of the corners of their eyes from time to time, and felt a little mollified.

Harry found, surprisingly, that he was actually enjoying himself. Zabini had kept up his friendly mood, and Harry had to admit his passionate defence of Runes against Bullstrode’s utter derision (which Harry suspected was mostly put on to rile Zabini up) was rather entertaining. Davis’ position of mediator (and, rather frequently, instigator) seemed to come naturally to her; Harry had the sudden vision of the four of them sitting in a corner of the dungeons, bickering amiably over other ridiculous subjects. Was Nott usually more involved, he wondered? He tried to imagine the other boy squabbling like his friends, and remembered sharply his passionate case for Charms that night in the empty classroom. He could imagine him like that, eyes bright and lips quirked, sardonic and earnest all at once. Harry, very suddenly, wanted to see him that way again.

The debate began to wind down after around an hour, and Harry was surprised at how quickly the time had gone. He was not surprised, however, to find that he had come no closer to picking a subject. Zabini was flushed and victorious; Bullstrode had gracelessly rolled her eyes and admitted defeat several minutes ago (it seemed Zabini had worn her down, more than anything), and Zabini was now winding down what seemed to be a gloating closing speech. Davis was watching him fondly, and even Bullstrode was having a hard time keeping an irate look on her face. Harry found himself laughing along with Davis when Zabini finished with an elaborate bow, which looked far less graceful than it might had he not been sitting down with an ink stain on his face from a dramatic flourish he had made earlier.

“So, Potter,” Zabini began, sounding smug, as the others finished rolling their eyes. “Have I convinced you to pick Ancient Runes, then?”

Bullstrode muttered something under her breath. There was a sharp thud from under the table, and the girl exclaimed, “Hey!” as Zabini morphed his face into a startlingly innocent expression.

“Well,” Harry said, trying to keep a straight face, “you did make an, er, compelling argument. I suppose it’s just hard to pick.”

Zabini frowned dramatically at this, and Davis seemed to take pity on Harry, interrupting before the boy could say something else. “Let’s see,” she said, thoughtfully. “You have to think about the pros and cons, with these things. For example, the pros for Runes: apparently, it’s good to have a language under your belt for after Hogwarts, if you care about that sort of thing. Oh, and it might help you with other forms of magic, because some have Runic bases. And it’d widen the number of texts you can read, obviously.

Now, the cons,” she sat up straighter, with a smirk. Zabini watched her with narrowed eyes. “One, it seems pretty boring. Two, you’d be stuck with Blaise, because none of us take it.” She smoothly shifted in her seat, and Zabini cursed as his foot hit the chair leg.

“Ha, ha.” He said, drily. “Now, what about Arithmancy? Which I’m also in.” He swivelled to face Harry. “Add that to the pros.” he informed him, seriously.

Davis shushed him. “I’m getting there,” she said. She cleared her throat, and shuffled the papers in front of her like some sort of Muggle judge. “Now, as for Arithmancy. The pros: good to have as an OWL, though not many professions outright require it. Uh, it can help with other subjects, sometimes. Potions uses it a bit, I think, and Transfiguration especially. Some people, apparently, find it interesting.” Her face clearly conveyed what she thought of those people. “Now, cons: also pretty boring. And there’s a lot of maths,” she pulled a face at this, and Harry felt himself nodding in sympathy. “Also, you’d be stuck with Blaise, Millie _and_ Theo, and they’d probably drive you crazy, too.”

Zabini winced dramatically, and Bullstrode scowled at her, but Harry detected no heat in it. Nott, conversely, was smiling a little, around the corners of his mouth. The sight was so unfamiliar that Harry had trouble looking away for a moment.

“You’re in Arithmancy, too?” Harry blurted. He could feel the others giving him strange looks, but Nott seemed to be considering him.

“Yes,” he said at length. “Tracey’s right that it’s a useful subject to have.” He tilted his head, and nodded once, conceding. “And it’s interesting, I suppose. There’s a lot of compelling theory being written on the possible applications of Arithmancy in other areas, these days.”

Zabini was shaking his head, sadly. “See, Potter? This is what you’d be in for.”

Davis flicked a rubber at him. “Ow!” he said, rubbing his arm, but he was smiling.

Well. Harry cleared his throat and tried not to think too hard about the rationale behind his decision. “You’ve made some good points, Davis. I think I might go for Arithmancy, after all.” He kept his face casual, and avoided Nott’s eyes, but he could feel the other boy’s gaze on him again. Bullstrode’s face seemed to be struggling between annoyance and victory; she settled for rolling her eyes, then shooting Zabini a smug look.

Zabini huffed a sigh of resignation, and Harry gave him an apologetic smile. Davis was smirking at her friend, but Harry saw her turn another quick, unreadable look onto Nott; taking a deep breath, Harry finally gave in and glanced up. Nott was watching him, of course, and as their eyes met Harry saw curiosity plain on the other boy’s face, as well as something he couldn’t quite identify.

Bullstrode closed her book with a loud _thwap_ , breaking the moment. Harry was surprised to see that the Library had largely emptied around him during their debate, apart from the table of seventh years in the corner, which seemed to have accrued even more harried-looking unfrotunates.

“Well,” Bullstrode said with a churlish sigh, “I guess we’re not studying anymore tonight.” She didn’t look over at Harry, but he felt a twinge of guilt nonetheless.

“Er, sorry that I ruined your study session. Will you be able to catch up?” he asked, awkwardly. He hoped they would – Bullstrode wasn’t someone he wanted resenting him.

Bullstrode snorted. “Sure. We’re not behind, we just like to keep on top of everything.” she explained with a modest shrug.

“Oh.” Harry said. The others had taken Bullstrode’s cue and were packing up the books scattered across the table. The sun was beginning to wane outside, casting their corner of the Library in dim evening light which made everything look a little orange. Harry wondered if Ron and Hermione were in, yet. He expected Hermione would be excited at his decision; she’d tried to be unbiased, but Harry knew plainly that Arithmancy was the girl’s favourite subject and she was hoping he’d pick it. Well, at least it would make her happy, he thought ruefully.

The others had finished gathering their things, and were pushing their chairs back in.

“Er,” Harry blurted, unsure how to voice the question he had been waiting all evening to ask. The four Slytherins looked at him, and he felt himself swallow at the weight of their stares.

“I was wondering,” he began, before pausing again. He licked his lips. Gryffindor, he reminded himself. “D’you think – I mean, would it be okay if I, er, came back, sometimes? To study, I mean. Uh, with you lot.”

He addressed this last, rather meekly, to the now-empty table. There was silence for a moment, and Harry tried to focus on the soft scratch of quills on parchment and the gentle swoosh of a page being turned nearby. It was hard to drown out the thumping of his heart. Merlin, he’d tackled a basilisk, but talking to a bunch of Slytherins made him this nervous? It made no sense.

He was considering how courageous it might be to make a strategic retreat, when Nott spoke.

“Okay,” he said, simply. Harry’s head shot up. Nott was watching him with that same curiosity-and-something-else expression he had worn earlier. The other three were looking over at the tall boy, all with eerily similar neutral faces.

“You can cover Defence, if you’d like. You’re better at it than I am.” His voice was even, but Harry didn’t think he was displeased. He remembered after a moment of staring blankly back at the boy that he ought to reply.

“Uh, sure! I mean, that’d be fine. I’ll, ah, see you all in class, then?” he asked, clutching at his satchel and forcing an almost-casual smile. All four nodded, and Zabini smiled back, while Davis bid him a friendly goodbye as they turned to leave. He caught Nott’s eye once more, as the other boy turned away, and then they were gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, this chapter really didn't want to be written. I apologise for it taking so long! I must've rewritten it almost in its entirety. I don't want to look at it anymore, so here it is. 
> 
> Anyway, i've always wanted to explore what might've happened if Harry had followed Hermione from Divinations. I hope the reasons given for Hermione taking him with her made sense in this context. Also, I promise this won't turn into some sort of Arithmancy fic. It will show up more, but I promise not to go too crazy making up a whole subject of magic. 
> 
> I hope everyone is continuing to stay safe! As always, comments make my week and thanks for reading!


	8. Arduous Arithmancy

“Are you _sure_ you have everything? Your books, quills? Enough parchment? We’d better hurry if we don’t want to be late.” Hermione was practically vibrating with excitement, Harry noted with a concealed sigh. Ever since he had told the girl of his decision to take Arithmancy instead of Divination, the fervour in her eyes had been alarming. Had he known she’d be this invested he might’ve picked Runes instead just to save his sanity.

They were currently finishing up a rather harried breakfast at the Gryffindor table. Between Hermione’s excited chatter about the upcoming class, and Ron’s unsubtle resentful glares, Harry had been left with little in the way of appetite. Although Hermione was over the moon about his decision, Ron was still feeling rather shell-shocked at finding his two best friends had abandoned him to Divination on his own.

His initial incredulity had waned after Hermione had offered an explanation, but Harry could tell that Ron was feeling upset about being left out. Harry knew he’d be too embarrassed to come out and say that, but he knew his friend well enough to know that being left out was a bit of a sore spot for him. Thankfully, he seemed to lose most of his resentment when Hermione, with a sudden surge of excitement, suggested that he drop Divination for Arithmancy, too. Ron had cast a panicked look at Harry, before informing Hermione that there was ‘no way in bloody hell’ he was swapping the easy-pass of Divination for something as difficult as Arithmancy. “I get a headache just from watching you do your Arithmancy homework, Hermione. Not a chance.” he had told the now scowling girl, firmly, and with a glance of newfound sympathy towards Harry the subject had been dropped.

That didn’t stop the boy from feeling a little morose now, though, Harry knew. He and Ron had been in every class together since they started Hogwarts, and although Harry had assured him that Seamus and Neville would be with him, he still seemed unimpressed. Knowing Ron, Harry figured he would need a day or two to grumble, and then it would be forgotten.

Harry’s mood was unlikely to improve so quickly. He had selected Arithmancy mostly at random (or so he assured himself), but after a night of Hermione attempting to give him a ‘quick introduction’ to the subject, he was regretting not simply picking Runes so he could fail the class in peace. The subject, from Hermione’s description, seemed utterly daunting. He hadn’t quite followed her explanations, but it seemed like maths was a big part, as well as something she referred to as ‘numerology’. Harry really didn’t want to know.

McGonagall had instructed him to simply attend the next class of his choice so as not to fall further behind, and had told him to arrange a plan for catching up with his new Professor.

When Hermione ushered them up and away from the table, the other Gryffindor boys falling into step with them, Harry attempted to swallow another sigh.

The group walked up several slights of stairs together before they split off, half heading off to Divination, and the other carrying on another few flights up to the seventh floor. “Merlin, I’m not looking forward to walking this twice a week,” Harry said, peering through a nearby window out over the grounds.

“That’s right,” Dean said, sympathetically, “I suppose you’ve only got little legs.”

“Oi!” squawked Harry, pretending to aim a kick at Dean’s calf. The other boy stepped nimbly out the way with a laugh, and Hermione rolled her eyes fondly at them both.

Before long they had arrived at the classroom. Hermione and Dean walked straight in, talking amongst themselves, but Harry trailed behind, curiosity warring with nerves in his stomach. It was an odd sensation to be new to a class; Harry had only attended the one Primary school, and he had never joined a class after it had started in Hogwarts. And Ron’s earlier gloom wasn’t quite unreasonable; it really was bizarre to be in a class without his best friend. He told himself firmly that it was definitely silly to miss the other boy, whom he’d see in less than an hour, but Harry still felt himself glancing aside, ready to share a look whenever Hermione said something crazy. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling. As he dragged himself forward behind his friends, he spotted several surprised looks being aimed his way. He ducked his head, and trotted a little to catch up to Hermione and Dean.

The classroom itself had an unusual layout, he noticed at once. It was clearly one of the older rooms in the Castle; small in size, it had two split sections of seating raised in a slope up from where the students had entered. It was reminiscent of a university lecture hall more than a normal classroom, and Harry eyed the ancient-looking wooden desks with mild trepidation. There seemed to only be five rows, separated by narrow steps between them, and Harry scanned the students who were already sitting.

It was quickly apparent that this class was dominated by Ravenclaws. Harry spotted several familiar faces and nodded awkwardly as they made surprised eye-contact. Merlin, it seemed as if every Ravenclaw in their year was here. He supposed he shouldn’t really be surprised.

Following Hermione and Dean towards the desks, Harry pulled a face when he realised the entire front row was already occupied. He noticed Hermione’s frown and felt his lips twitch. Count on her to be disappointed not to get the front seat. He turned a little to share a look with Ron, before remembering. After a small huff, he followed them to the second row behind a group of semi-familiar Ravenclaws who already seemed to have their books opened and ready on their desks.

He collapsed ungracefully onto the bench next to Hermione. As the girl began chatting happily with Dean about a previous lesson, Harry spotted several etchings on the desk in front of him. Peering forward, he could make out several phrases; a swear word, two names, and what seemed to be a small poem about a Professor whose name he didn’t recognise. He wondered, idly, how long ago they had been made. Hogwarts itself was over a thousand years old, wasn’t it? Surely they brought in new furniture sometimes; still, Harry ran one hand gently over the etchings, and wondered if they might be a few centuries old, at least.

Noticing, after a moment, that Hermione and Dean were already set-up, Harry hastily began pulling his things out of his satchel. From where he sat, Harry had a clear view of the door opening once again, and tried to school his expression into nonchalance at the arrival of the Slytherins. As Nott, Zabini, and Bullstrode made their way towards the desks, Harry noted with surprise two more Slytherins following in their wake: Pansy Parkinson and Daphne Greengrass. Harry turned a questioning look to Hermione, who followed his gaze and grimaced. “They’ve been fine so far,” she whispered with a slight shrug, head bowed towards his. Harry nodded back at her and tried to smile reassuringly. Parkinson had never gotten along with them – unlike Nott’s group of Slytherins, Harry had no qualms about writing her off. The girl was usually found with Malfoy, snickering cruelly at whatever he said, and Harry knew Hermione was a particularly favoured target of hers.

Harry was just about to drag his eyes back over to his own desk when Greengrass looked up and her dark eyes met his. Her expression seemed… considering, and for a moment Harry couldn’t look away. Greengrass’s expression cleared in the space of a blink, and the girl startled him by nodding once to him, coolly, before she turned back to engage Parkinson in conversation.

Harry blinked. _What on earth was that about_? he thought, bewildered. He flicked his eyes over to Nott’s group, sitting near the back on the other side of the classroom, and attempted to squash the flicker of disappointment when none of the group looked over to acknowledge him. They were setting up now, and Zabini seemed to be going on one of his tangents, judging by Bullstrode’s unimpressed expression and Nott’s raised eyebrow.

Before Harry could lose himself in his newfound surveillance of the Slytherins, the door opened once again, and this time the Professor entered. Septima Vector was a tall, austere woman of middle-age, dressed jarringly in dark red robes. Her eyes and skin were dark and striking, and she had an intelligent, impassive face. Casting her eyes around the room, Harry felt a rush of nerves when her penetrating gaze fell on him.

“Mr. Potter.” the witch said, in a clear voice, as the murmured conversations around them fell silent. “May I speak with you for a moment, before we begin today’s lesson?”

Harry felt himself flush as the class turned curious looks onto him. Standing, he nodded quickly and hurried down the steps to the desk in the corner where Professor Vector waited.

As he approached the desk, the woman was shuffling papers into a neat pile. Her desk looked very organised, compared to the clutter he’d noticed on some of his Professor’s desks. With a spark of amusement, Harry thought Hermione would be jealous when he noticed what appeared to be a colour-coded filing system. The only personal item he could see was an out-of-place looking photo, near the edge. Glancing at it quickly, he spotted a young woman of striking resemblance to the Professor. A daughter? He looked away sharply, hoping she hadn’t noticed him staring, and waited awkwardly at the side of the desk for a moment longer, before Vector turned and gave him a small, surprisingly kind smile.

“Good morning, Mr. Potter,” she began. Harry noticed the volume in the classroom had grown once again, likely – knowing the students’ universal love of gossip – as the students realised Harry and the Professor were speaking too quietly to be overheard.

“Good morning, ma’am.” Harry mumbled in return. The witch did seem less intimidating up close. She had a stern air, and Harry was reminded strongly of a somewhat younger and more serious Professor McGonagall. Her hazel eyes, however, had the same kindness in them as he’d seen in Lupin’s. Harry felt himself relax somewhat – he’d hear tale of this Professors strictness, and had been admittedly a little nervous to face her.

“Well,” Vector continued, “you haven’t missed too much, thankfully. For the last two weeks we’ve mainly been working on an introduction to the subject and have been going over what to expect from this course. I trust you were able to find a copy of the core text in the Library?”. She waited for Harry’s nod before continuing. “Good. That should do you fine until you order your own copy. Now, I’ve compiled a few handouts for you, summarising what you’ve missed over the last few weeks, and indicating any reading you should catch up on. Did you have a chance to read the Introductory chapter to the core book yet?” she asked, smoothly handing him the pile of papers she had sorted a few moments before.

 _Uh-oh_ , Harry thought. In hindsight, of course he should’ve read that chapter. It simply hadn’t occurred to him, what with Hermione’s own excessive ‘introduction’. He felt his face heat further as he wracked his brain for what to say. He contemplated lying to the Professor for a moment, but one look at her patiently expectant face made him lose his nerve. “Er,” he said, instead.

It seemed this was answer enough. She didn’t look angry, but Harry swallowed nervously regardless as she gave him a short nod. “Very well. Prioritise reading that before our next class; I expect, with some effort, that you should be caught up by this time next week. Does that sound reasonable?”

Harry nodded again, suppressing a sigh. There went his weekend.

“Right.” the Professor said. “Don’t worry if you’re a little lost today. We’re moving on to our first practical topic, so simply follow the lead of your partner and raise your hand if you’re unsure. Alright?” she asked him.

Harry nodded quickly, and she gestured towards back towards the desks. Wasting no time, he darted back to his seat with his papers in tow. Just as he turned to take his seat next to Hermione, Nott glanced up from where he was sitting, and their eyes met for a long moment, before Harry resumed his seat.

The next twenty minutes of class were peaceful, if not stress-free. Despite Vector’s assurances, Harry felt completely lost. He was now regretting tuning Hermione out during her crash-course last night. He found himself eyeing the other students, hoping to find someone else looking as lost as he felt, but he was out of luck. The only students he could spot looking anything other than enthralled (Hermione and several Ravenclaws) or politely attentive (everyone else) were a thoroughly bored-looking Parkinson and one of the two Hufflepuffs in the class, Susan Bones, whose eyes looked ever so slightly glazed over as she stared ahead. Hannah Abbott, sitting next to her, was taking dutiful notes.

Harry was brought back to attention when the Professor paused in her lecture. Oh Merlin, he hoped he hadn’t missed anything else.

“Right.” she said, in her clear, high voice. “Now that we’ve covered the theory, let’s have a stab at some practical work. In your pairs from last week’s class, you’ll each attempt to write a full personal chart for your partner. I expect this to be handed in by two weeks from today. That should allow you plenty of time to complete your charts, and to come to me if you have trouble.”

Harry eyed the rest of the room, nervously. No one seemed panicked, or suddenly stressed, though he noted Parkinson looked rather displeased. Merlin, fifteen minutes in and already he had two sets of homework. Maybe Ron had been right.

“You may use your books as a reference,” their Professor continued, “and I will be handing out blank charts for you to use for this first attempt. An example will be on the board for you to follow, if needed. The due date for this assignment will be underneath.” She waved her wand sharply, and writing appeared across the chalkboard at the front of the room. Harry blinked, rather impressed, before the Professor’s words hit him. _Hang on,_ _partners_? In panic he turned to Hermione, who was biting her lip, mind-reader that she was.

“Sorry, Harry,” the girl said. “we had to partner for an activity last week, and I paired with Dean.” The aforementioned boy was also shooting him an apologetic look.

“That’s alright,” Harry replied, trying not to sound disappointed. “I’m sure there’ll be someone else free.”

Harry turned in his seat to scan the room, an unpleasant feeling in his stomach, wishing more than ever that Ron was here. It looked as if the Ravenclaws had paired off evenly, and he scanned the two Hufflepuff and Slytherin girls sitting together with trepidation. That left… Oh, Merlin. As he turned to them, he saw the three Slytherins up the back looking at him with anticipation. Zabini was smirking happily, and Bullstrode seemed to be eyeing him with a frown. Nott’s face was characteristically blank as he watched Harry. _Right. Nothing for it_. With a tight smile at Hermione’s concerned look, Harry gathered his things and headed up the stairs and across the row towards them.

“Hello,” he said once he was standing next to them, with an awkward little wave.

“Potter,” Zabini said, smirk still fully in place. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Harry rolled his eyes, and grimaced uncomfortably. The other two did not greet him.

“Er, looks like there’s an odd number, so I reckon I’ll have to pair with one of you,” he said, ears burning.

Zabini’s grin grew wide, and he cast an undeniably mischievous look at Nott, who was watching him placidly. “Well, Millie and I always work together, you see, so I suppose you’ll just have to work with Theo today.” He smiled up at Harry winningly.

Bullstrode seemed to be having a hard time deciding whether to laugh or glare. Harry cleared his throat and tried not to look at Nott. “Alright, then. I mean, if that’s alright with you, Nott.” Harry said, faux-casually, trying to subtly eye the other boy to see if he looked upset.

There was a pause, before Nott quietly replied, “Sure.” and stood stiffly. Most of the pairs had put a few seats between their classmates for some privacy, so Harry followed Nott to a part of the bench a few metres from the Slytherins, who were watching them retreat with open amusement.

As they sat and lapsed into an uncomfortable silence, Harry cursed himself again for picking Arithmancy instead of Runes, where he would probably be enjoying a nice nap around now.

“So, er, you know I’ve missed the classes so far, so I’ll probably be a bit useless at this,” Harry admitted as the silence began to grow unbearable.

Nott surprised him by snorting, and opened his notebook. “That’s alright, Potter. It’s fairly straightforward, once you understand the theory. We have two weeks, so hopefully you’ll be caught up by then. Now,” he began, but was cut off as sheets of paper began pouring from the front of the classroom. He glanced down, and saw the Professor’s wand lazily being lowered. For one bizarre moment, watching the fluttering sheets, Harry was reminded vividly of his Hogwarts letters being delivered _en masse_ before first year. He blinked, and his brain caught up with him as two sets of handouts fluttered to a stop on the desk in front of them. He couldn’t help but smile. “It’s always brilliant when they do that,” he said, inspecting his sheets with only a little bit of resigned horror. When he received no reply, he glanced up to see Nott giving him a strange look.

“What?” Harry said, wondering for a horrible moment if some jam from breakfast was smeared on his face. Nott just shook his head slightly, and seemed to become focused once again, scanning the proffered blank chart with a critical eye.

“Right,” he said. “There’s a detailed guide on how to create personal charts in the textbook, but I’ll give you the basic rundown.”

Harry felt an uncomfortable flutter of guilt that he was already more interested in Nott’s ‘rundown’ than Hermione’s impassioned treatise the night before. Sending a silent apology to his friend, he turned in his seat and gave Nott his full attention. His light brown hair was as neat as ever, flopping a little over his forehead, but the dark circles under his eyes told a different story. He watched Harry for a moment, before clearing his throat.

“First: what do you know about Arithmancy already?” Nott asked, leaning back in his chair.

“Er, not all that much.” Harry admitted. “It’s to do with… numbers, I think, and how they relate to magic. I got that much from Bullstrode yesterday, at least. Oh, and it can be used to predict the future a bit. Way more reliable than Divination, she said. And Hermione said something about charts being dead useful for, er, categorising things? And learning more about them, she said, though I’m not sure what that means, really.” He grimaced. “It seems pretty complicated, to be honest. I bet I’ll be rubbish at it.” Harry realised he was rambling a bit, and cut himself off with an awkward smile, but Nott simply nodded, face neutral as always.

“You’ve got the gist,” he said. Nott seemed to think for a moment, head cocked to the side slightly like some sort of intimidating, studious bird. He sat forward again, hands clasped loosely before him, and began. “So. I’m sure you know this already, but numbers have meaning – you’ve likely heard of the power of the number seven? A seventh son of a seventh son, for example, is said to be extremely powerful. Well, Arithmancy focuses on the relationship of numbers to the universe; in particular, Arithmancers study the relation of numbers to magic. Using Arithmancy, each number is given a specific meaning, and from this, ideas and sometimes predications can be gleaned about people, magic, and sometimes, yes, the future. There are a few different branches of Arithmancy, but to start with we’ve been looking at Numerology.

In its most basic sense, using a certain system, a letter of the alphabet will be given a specific numerical value; say A is one, for example. A chart might then be created to examine a particular spell – say, Wingardium Leviosa. If each letter in the alphabet has a value, we can then translate – in a sense – this spell into a set of numbers. When read in combination, this can reveal certain things about the spell. That’s why just waving your wand around and saying gibberish does nothing; each spell must be carefully crafted, and Arithmancy is a part of it. It’s more complicated than that, and there are lots of things you can do with a reading, but that’s the essence of it.

Now, for a person, we can follow the same principles. The basic, entry stuff – like a personal chart – involves readings using a person’s name, their date of birth, their proportions, their magic, and so on. The one we’ve got to do doesn’t seem too complicated; it’s probably just to get us used to writing charts. If we go through it step-by-step, it shouldn’t be much trouble.” Nott finished this impromptu lesson with a refined shrug, and waited patiently for Harry to speak.

Harry, meanwhile, was trying to gather his thoughts. That was definitely the most he’d ever heard Nott speak at once, and he was a little overwhelmed by having the intense boy’s focus trained on him so thoroughly. The subject sounded… surprisingly, almost interesting. Theoretically. Harry was still confident that he’d be rubbish at it, and he definitely wasn’t looking forward to doing the work, but with Nott as a partner, he felt himself relax a little; perhaps this wouldn’t be entirely horrible.

\-------

“Ughhhh,” Harry moaned, “this is the absolute _worst_.”

From where he was currently lying, head hanging dolefully off the end of the couch, Harry’s view of Hermione was blocked, but he could almost _hear_ her eye-roll.

“Honestly, Harry. You’re barely halfway through the first chapter. You can’t be complaining already.”

“Well, I am. This is torture, Hermione. I don’t know how you stand it.” He knew he sounded petulant, but he couldn’t care less. Harry felt he was entitled to a bit of a whine after slogging through 15 pages of his Arithmancy book – it read like it was a foreign language, for all the good it did him.

“Is it that bad, mate?” Ron asked, from where he was treacherously playing chess against Ginny one table over. Judging from his sister’s scowl, Ron was winning, as usual. They were in the common room, and the quiet chatter from the few dozen students still loitering around, as well as the pleasant heat from the nearby fire seemed to be conspiring with his Arithmancy text to put Harry straight to sleep.

He cast a baleful look over to Ron. “It’s awful,” he told his friend, who had already turned back to his game and seemed to be deep in thought. “I get one paragraph down and forget what I’ve just read. Maybe this book has a curse on it, or something? I did get it from the Library. Who knows who had it before me.” Harry said to the room at large, a hopeful note to his voice.

“It’s not cursed, Harry. You’re just not processing it properly. Honestly.” Hermione huffed. “You’re not even taking notes. What do you expect?”

“Notes?” Harry said, scandalised. “To read a book?”

Hermione seemed to pause, mouth pinched, to gather her patience. Harry, who sometimes knew how to quit, tried to make himself look very meek.

“Do you listen to anything I say?” his friend asked him after a moment, frown bordering on hurt. “I _know_ I’ve told you to take notes when you read. It’s a great help. I do know what I’m talking about, sometimes.” Yes, that was definitely hurt in her voice.

Harry sat up, mouth pulling down a little. “Of course we listen to you, Hermione. And I’m pretty sure you know what you’re talking about _all_ of the time. I’m sorry. It’s just a bit overwhelming. Being behind is pretty rubbish.” He pulled a face.

The girl sniffed, and softly closed the book she had been reading. “I know what it’s like to be behind, Harry. Remember when I was petrified last year? I had plenty to catch up on, then. You might just _ask_ for my help, you know.”

Harry’s stomach fell. He had actually, momentarily, forgotten that Hermione had fallen behind last year. The memory of his friend, frozen and utterly unresponsive, still appeared in his nightmares rather frequently; that he could never forget. He supposed they’d all been so excited over Hermione being unpetrified that he hadn’t given much thought to how she’d handle the consequences.

Harry stuck out his foot and gently bumped her calf. “I’m sorry,” he said, as the girl looked up. “You’re right.” He smiled at her apologetically, and after a moment she rolled her eyes and smiled back. He sat up straighter, with a smirk. “So,” he cleared his throat, and tried to channel his inner Percy Weasley. “Hermione Granger,” he began, pompously, and her lips twitched. “Would you, resident expert on managing schoolwork and all things academic, pretty please do me the honour of helping me read this terrifying textbook?”

He watched her with wide, sincere eyes, and Hermione couldn’t help but laugh. She rolled her eyes again, but this time it looked distinctly fond. “Yes, I suppose I could.” She said, leaning forward and picking up his discarded textbook. “Now,” she said. “You’re going about this all wrong, Harry…”

The common room began to empty as the evening wore on, the sunlight along the walls giving way to lamplight and casting a warm, mellow blanket of light over the remaining students. An hour of Hermione’s tutelage, and Harry was willing to grudgingly admit that his study methods left a lot to be desired. He was feeling distinctly less stressed about the swarth of homework ahead of him by the time his small group decided to turn in for the night. They were the last left in the Common Room, Harry noted, as Ron began packing away his chess set (he was being particularly gentle with the pieces, as they had been rather aggrieved earlier when Ginny had taken to launching hers at her brother’s head in the wake of her third consecutive loss). Eying the younger girl, Harry was seized by a sudden idea.

He waved Ron on as he waited for him at the bottom of the stairs to the boys’ dormitory. “Go on ahead, I’ll just be a minute.”

Ron gave him a considering frown, but simply shrugged and headed up the stairs with a sleepy wave.

Hermione and Ginny had begun heading for their own stairs. “Er, Ginny?” Harry asked, clutching his satchel in front of him like a shield.

The girl looked back over her shoulder expectantly.

“Do you, er, mind if I have a word, quickly? In private?”

The two girls shared a look; Hermione was frowning, and Harry could see her curiosity plain, but when Ginny simply nodded back to him consideringly, Hermione’s face relaxed, and she bid them both goodnight.

When Hermione had disappeared from view, Ginny approached. “Alright, Harry?” she asked, hesitation in her voice. Harry could see a little pink in her cheeks, but thankfully nothing like the tomato imitations of last year. Ginny’s crush on him had made him tremendously uncomfortable then; he was beyond glad that it seemed to have mostly faded now.

“Um, yeah. I was just – thinking,” he started, and found himself immediately trailing off. What to say? Though he’d been paying attention to Hermione’s tutelage, over the last hour his mind kept sneakily drifting off to Hermione’s comment about being Petrified last year. It was a jarring reminder of what had transpired the year previous. Harry still felt a sliver of guilt at not really addressing it properly before. Everything had happened so fast at the end of last year – and everyone was so grateful when the threat was over that the unpleasantness of it all almost took a backseat. Term had ended quickly after, and there hadn’t been much mention of it in his correspondence with his friends over the summer, beyond a few references to Hermione’s workload and Ron once mentioning that Ginny was doing a bit better. Some things were hard to put into letters, he reasoned. But still – it was several weeks into term, and he ought to have talked to his friends about this before now, he felt. And who was more involved in everything that had happened than the girl in front of him?

Ginny was waiting patiently, but Harry could detect more than a hint of worry in her eyes. Taking a deep breath, he tried to organise his thoughts.

“I’ve been thinking about last year.”

Ginny’s expression shuttered immediately, to be replaced by a wary, blank look which put him, bizarrely, in mind of Theodore Nott.

“Er – I’m sorry to bring it up when I know you probably don’t want to talk about it – it’s just… are you alright?”

Ginny continued to stare at him, but her eyebrows were slowly inching up.

“Sorry, that’s a silly question. I mean – how’ve you been? Y’know, since then?”

There was another beat of silence, before Ginny gave him a thoughtful look. Well, he hadn’t expected that.

“How’ve I been since a teenaged You-Know-Who possessed me and made me set a giant snake on the school?” Ginny asked.

Harry nodded. “Er – yeah.”

“Not great,” the girl said after a moment, dryly. Her lips twitched, and Harry felt a jolt of panic that she might start crying, but the action simply morphed into a small, grim smile.

“Yeah, er. Of course.” Harry said. There was another pause as Ginny looked back at him, expectedly.

“D’you want to talk about it?” Harry asked at length, when it seemed like the girl wasn’t going to say anything else.

Ginny looked at him with a shrewd expression for a moment, but whatever she saw on his face must have meant something to her, as she grimaced and gave a sharp shrug. After a moment, she sighed, and collapsed tiredly onto the nearest couch. Harry took the seat across from her, sitting gingerly and hoping fervently that he knew what he was doing.

“I don’t know,” she said, watching the lowly burning fire instead of him. “Mum wanted me to talk about it all the time, you know, right after it happened, but I kept shutting her down. I just… I guess for them it was this sudden thing, me getting taken down to the Chamber, but they seemed to forget that it was happening all year for me, you know?” Her voice was quiet, and remarkably serious for the usually fiery girl. “I was – trying to deal with it, and it was horrible and I didn’t know what to do and I had to deal with it all by myself, and then overnight everyone knew and just - wanted me to talk about it, suddenly. After months of keeping it to myself. Mum and dad eventually stopped asking. Then they thought maybe keeping me busy would help, so I had a whole summer of – degnoming the garden and mum trying to teach me how to knit again.” She finally tore her eyes from the fire to pull a face at Harry, who had a sudden vision of an enraged Ginny setting fire to Mrs. Weasley’s knitting yarn with the power of her glare. He laughed, and after a moment she smiled back at him knowingly. Their geniality only lasted a moment, though, before Ginny’s face slowly fell again. Harry couldn’t help the pang that went through him. She was only a year below him, but he was so used to thinking of her as Ron’s little sister that she always seemed particularly young to him. He supposed that wasn’t quite fair. In his dreams, he still saw her dying on the Chamber floor.

“I guess when I started wanting to talk about it, it was too late.” She continued, voice a murmur. It seemed like she was talking to the fire, rather than him. “I mentioned it at dinner once, and everyone just got this awkward frozen look on their faces, like they didn’t know what to say and wished I hadn’t brought it up.” She grimaced, and Harry shifted on his seat. He wasn’t entirely sure, had he been in that situation, that he wouldn’t have reacted like the Weasleys. He was worried for a moment that Ginny might see his discomfort on his face, but the girl was back staring at the fire.

“But then there was Egypt, and I got to see Bill. It was nice, I guess. He always knows what to say, and – and he told me, ‘cause he works with cursed items all the time, that he’s seen loads of people, older and more powerful, who got tricked by curses and that it wasn’t my fault. I mean, mum and dad said that too, but I guess it was nicer coming from Bill. Maybe since he knows what he’s talking about. He’s always been nice to me, you know? You met him in Diagon this summer, didn’t you? D’you remember?”

Harry did indeed remember Bill Weasley, of the long hair and pierced ear and charming smiles. He felt his face flush, but nodded back at Ginny firmly. She smiled at him, warmly, and Harry thought for a moment again how much older she seemed than her twelve years – much older than the girl he’d met last year. Was that because of everything that had happened? He tried to think if he’d seemed different like that, after what happened with the Stone and the Basilisk and Tom Riddle last year. No one had said anything, if he did. He wondered if that was the sort of thing you noticed at the time, or if it wasn’t until years later that you looked back and realised you had grown up early.

“It’s weird being back here. I keep – feeling like he’s going to be here, somewhere, you know? Or that I’m going to open my bag one day, and the d-diary will be there.” She was biting her lip now, and Harry had no idea what to say.

“The dementors don’t help, either.” She said, bitterly, and Harry remembered how she’d reacted on the train. He gave her a sympathetic look, which she returned. She sighed.

“The worst part is that I spent so much of last year dealing with – dealing with Him, that I missed out when everyone was off making friends and being normal first years. It’s awkward, with my Dormmates, now. I dunno if I’ll ever really make any friends. It didn’t seem that important, last year, with – well, you met him. You know how charming he could be.” She swallowed, thickly.

Harry remembered talking to Tom, being sucked into that memory of Hagrid – he remembered wanting to impress the older boy, the way he seemed so interested in Harry and knew exactly what to say. He was taken by surprise by the sudden surge of compassion he felt towards Ginny. Even as just a memory, Voldemort couldn’t stop hurting innocent people.

“Yeah, I remember,” he mumbled, after a moment.

Ginny let out a sigh and looked up at him. The mood seemed to lift a little, and the haunted look that had overtaken her face seemed to have left. He noted, with a slightly guilty surge of relief, that she didn’t seem to be blushing over being in his presence, anymore, either.

“Sorry, Harry. I don’t know where all that came from, really. I shouldn’t have unloaded it all onto you like that.” She looked a bit guilty now, herself, and he rushed to assure her.

“No, no, I mean – it’s fine. I asked, didn’t I? I just, er - I just wanted to make sure you have someone you can – talk to. Y’know? I have Ron and Hermione, and I know your brothers are here, but... I just wanted to check, I guess. In case you need someone who isn’t family to talk about it with.” He shrugged, and he could feel his face heating once again.

Ginny’s smile was small, but warm. “Thanks, Harry. That actually… felt pretty good to talk about. And… I don’t know, I guess. I mean, there’s Bill, but I don’t want to bother him with this stuff when he’s working.” She looked down, suddenly reminiscent of the painfully shy girl he’d met at the station on his first day of Hogwarts.

“Well,” Harry said, slowly, “I mean, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind, right? He’d want you to talk to him. I bet he’s worried about you, and it’d make you both feel better to talk about it. I mean, he’s family, right? That’s what he’s for.”

A squirming feeling of bitterness swelled in him, as he said the last part, but he squashed it, promptly, and tried to focus on the girl in front of him.

Ginny’s eyes were a little wet, Harry noticed with horror, but the girl simply sniffed and smiled at him again. “You’re probably right, Harry. I’ll think about it, I guess.”

There was silence for another few moments. Slowly, the tense atmosphere started to fade away, and a sense of awkwardness seemed to rise up between the two.

“Er,” Harry said, when he couldn’t handle it anymore. “I better – go check on Ron.” _Merlin_ , he chastised himself, _what a ridiculous thing to say_.

Ginny seemed to feel the awkwardness all at once. Biting her lip, the girl nodded quickly, and sprang up from the couch. Biting back a sigh, Harry noticed tell-tale pink running along her cheeks. “Yeah, um, g’night, Harry. Thank you for – all that.” Ginny mumbled.

“Er, you’re welcome - night,” he said, giving her a little wave and a rather fixed smile. She smiled back at him quickly, then darted off up the stairs, leaving Harry alone to watch the fire for a moment longer, before he followed her up to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they were Arithmancy partners! (Oh my god they were Arithmancy partners)
> 
> Harry, making connections: so... trauma? 
> 
> Also, during a pandemic, it's probably not the wisest use of my time to be making up an entire course outline for a briefly-mentioned Hogwarts subject, and yet. Numerology is a real thing, and it's kinda bizarre. 
> 
> I hope everyone is doing well and staying safe! Thank you all so much for reading and commenting, it really makes my whole week. Till next time!


	9. Difficult Decisions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the month-long absence! Baby's first writer's block struck me hard. This chapter is almost 10k, which i hope makes up for the delay in getting it out.

Harry groaned, letting his head fall onto the table with a dull thump.

Nott didn’t look up from where he was frowning down at his own chart. “Honestly, Potter,” the boy said, voice mild as ever, “you’re making it harder for yourself than it needs to be.”

This was not the first time Nott had told him this that evening. They were sat opposite each other at a table in the library, and Harry was beginning to seriously consider dropping out of Hogwarts to live full-time as a muggle, where, if he was lucky, he’d probably never have to hear the phrase ‘numerical value’ ever again.

Their shared desk was a testament to Harry’s misery: half of the area was covered in balled-up parchment and far too many blotches of ink to be forgivable for third years; the other half of the table, of course, was laid out neatly with several books on Arithmancy and Nott’s expensive-looking stationery and notebook.

They had decided on tonight to begin writing their charts, and so far things hadn’t been going well. The actual chart-writing wasn’t too bad, Harry reflected: it was difficult to wrap his head around, and he kept tripping himself up on simple things, but it wasn’t utterly excruciating, especially with Nott’s remarkably patient explanations. No, the main problem was the heated glares that were being passed between the two tables immediately behind them.

After discovering that Harry was planning on joining Nott in the library for a personal study session, Ron had maturely refrained from having an outright conniption, and had instead made a very bare-faced excuse about homework in order to join them. He was currently sitting at the table behind and to the right of Harry, a book propped unopen in front of him, and was busy alternating his suspicious glares between Nott and soon, to Harry’s quiet despair, Bullstrode. The tall girl was sitting to the left of the boys, directly opposite Ron, and had seemed more than happy to pick up the mantle of glowering right back at him in place of Nott, who had his back to them both and seemed mercifully oblivious to Harry’s impending stress-induced heart-attack. Zabini and Davis, thank Merlin, seemed content working by themselves on either side of Bullstrode, although, judging by the occasional twitch of the girl’s lips, she was far too amused by the situation for Harry’s enjoyment. Possibly just to make Harry’s life harder, he had also caught Zabini shooting Hermione several unreadable looks from under his lashes. It was a small mercy, Harry supposed, that he seemed mostly to be ignoring the spirited and silent glaring contest going on around them all.

Harry had been very red-faced for the first twenty minutes of their session, as Ron and Bullstrode’s silently suspicious glares descended into plain dirty looks, but Nott seemed utterly unfazed by the tension around him, and carried on with their work with a quiet focus which suggested he was either unaware of the atmosphere, or was expertly ignoring it. Harry was willing to bet on the latter. Regardless, whenever the other boy seemed completely engrossed in his book, and not liable to look up, Harry found himself shooting furious looks at Ron and (with a little more intimidation) Bullstrode, both of whom seemed united at least in the act of ignoring Harry.

Harry had just been grateful that Hermione would never turn down a trip to the library. She was sitting beside Ron, working on an essay for Binns, and had flushed the same pink that was likely on Harry’s cheeks when Ron began waging his silent war. They had exchanged embarrassed, guilty glances for the first few minutes, but soon Hermione’s attention was caught by her essay, and Harry found himself too confused by his chart to pay Ron too much mind. He seemed content at least to limit himself to only glaring. An hour in, and even Ron’s glowers had begun to fade. Now, he mostly looked surly, and utterly bored. Harry could see him, out of the corner of his eye, looking moodily over to the Slytherins and tapping his wand absently against the table, apparently oblivious to Hermione’s increasingly twitching eye as she tried to read.

Harry refrained from rolling his eyes at his friend, and sat up ungraciously from his slouch with a sigh. Nott was as unbothered as ever, seemingly making little notes in his leather notebook, which looked remarkably more impressive next to Harry’s scattered bits of parchment.

Harry’s shoulders slumped as he watched the other boy write.

“You’re probably right,” Harry grumbled at last, picking up his quill to doodle a miniature Snitch on the edge of his parchment.

“Probably?” Nott said mildly, after a moment, still not looking up.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Fine, you’re definitely right. It’s just – way too many numbers,” he said, unconcerned for the moment by how petulant he sounded.

Nott finally met his eyes at this, cocking one eyebrow pointedly.

“Well, fine, it’s not _that_ many numbers,” Harry conceded after moment, grimacing. “But it’s still maths. I don’t _mind_ maths, but I didn’t think wizards really bothered with it. I mean, they don’t have it as a class or anything, besides this,” he gestured loosely at the table.

Nott frowned, and drummed his long fingers gently against the table. “Well, it’s presumed that Pureblood children will receive basic tutoring in certain subjects before Hogwarts, including writing and arithmetic. If we need or want to explore those subjects further, we can take classes like Arithmancy, or our parents can arrange for extra tutoring during the summer.”

“Oh,” Harry said. He supposed that made sense. He’d have to ask Ron about that later – he couldn’t remember his friend ever mentioning a tutor, but he realised, with a funny twist of his stomach, that Mr and Mrs. Weasley might have stepped in to teach him themselves. Tutors couldn’t be cheap, especially with seven children.

“What do Half-bloods do?” Harry asked after a moment.

“I suppose that depends on the Half-blood, doesn’t it?” the other boy responded. He was back to politely avoiding Harry’s eyes as he made a quick note in his notebook, but it was a step up from the careful, monotonous way he’d been discussing Arithmancy so far, and Harry found himself unusually pleased that Nott seemed willing to engage with him about something other than schoolwork. This was almost a real conversation. “I’d imagine some receive tutoring, and some attend those - Muggle schools, instead, like the Muggle-borns do.”

“Oh, yeah,” Harry said, bizarrely pleased to be able to explain something to Nott, for a change. “I went to a Muggle school, actually. Primary schools, they’re called. You go there ‘til you’re eleven or twelve.”

He wondered absently for a moment if the Purebloods were missing out a bit, having to rely on tutors and never experiencing any sort of school before Hogwarts - but, he supposed, those tutors probably cost an arm and a leg, and Muggle school wasn’t particularly great, in his experience, so maybe it balanced out. Did the children get to socialise much, though? Ron had never mentioned having any friends before Hogwarts, but Harry wondered, with a pang of empathy, if Ron, like Harry, wasn’t the norm in that area.

“I suppose you would’ve, being raised by Muggles,” Nott said, thoughtfully. He paused for a moment, as if weighing something, before asking, “What was it like?”

Harry thought for a moment, trying to come up with an honest answer that sounded a little more dignified than his immediate response of ‘utter shit, actually’. He made the effort to be fair. “Sort’ve like Hogwarts, I guess, but everyone’s younger and there’s no magic, so everything is theory, mostly. You get to, um, play, sometimes, ‘cause everyone’s younger, and you’re in the same class for all the years, usually. And you go home after classes, obviously, so you don’t have this,” he waved, vaguely, at their surroundings. “Well – unless it’s a boarding school, but I think that’s mostly rich kids and stuff.”

Nott’s usually blank face was wrinkled in thought; his long nose was scrunched up slightly and it made him look, surprisingly, a little younger, and - Harry thought, furiously suppressing his twitching lips - a little bit like the gerbil Dudley had neglectful for two months several years ago, before it had ‘run away’ (back to the pet shop in town, Harry suspected, courtesy of Aunt Petunia, who had hated sharing her house with a ‘rodent’). Harry decided, for all their sake’s, to keep the comparison to himself.

“Hm,” the other boy said after a few seconds. “That’s… interesting.” He went back to writing, and after a few moments it became clear he wasn’t going to say anything else on the matter. Harry, who had expected a bit more than that after Nott’s long pause, tried to keep his surprise in check. The other boy continued eventually, “I wouldn’t mention any of that to Tracey; she’ll keep you for hours while she gets every detail out of you. Now,” he said, laying his quill gently across his parchment. “Are you going to try again, or not?”

Harry blinked, and glanced unenthusiastically at his already messy chart. “I suppose,” he grumbled, running a hand through his hair and scowling down at his work. He heard a snort, but by the time he looked up, Nott was peering at his own chart, face politely blank. Bastard.

Harry sighed again and picked up his quill. Trying to remember Hermione’s advice, he began tentatively making a list of the information he had so far.

_Name: Theodore Nott_

_DOB: May 15 th, 1980_

_Mother: Mallory Nott_

_Father: Cassius Nott_

_Height: 165cm_

Harry had felt a little embarrassed exchanging personal details like birthdays and heights, but Nott hadn’t seemed concerned at all, passing over his details without any sort of fanfare. Harry knew he had been a little more awkward. There was no way Nott didn’t know the names of James or Lily Potter, and likely Harry’s birthday, too; but Nott had waited for him to tell him the information, quill poised to write, completely cool and without the awestruck looks discussions of the Potters usually garnered. Harry wasn’t sure how to feel about Nott apparently pretending not to know anything about him, but he couldn’t deny that he’d grown to hate having people tell him things about himself, so he wasn’t complaining.

Harry picked up their instructions and scanned the list of what they’d need to complete their charts. “Right,” he said. “Might as well get all the details down first. Next up is, uh, grandparents’ names. Er, do you want to go first?” he asked. He would’ve been fine asking almost anyone else these questions, but something about Nott seemed so private; Harry got the impression that the boy rarely revealed anything about himself if he could help it, and it felt somehow wrong that he was being forced to for a class project. Harry couldn’t help but feel like he was snooping.

Not noticing or (more likely, Harry admitted) ignoring Harry’s awkwardness, the boy simply nodded and proceeded to give him the names, which all sounded sufficiently Pureblooded and, honestly, rather ridiculous. Harry found his limit breached at Nott’s paternal grandfather. “ _Cantankerus_? Really?” He’d heard plenty of bizarre wizarding names, but this was a little bit too much.

Nott simply raised his eyebrows at Harry, pursing his lips. “Yes, Cantankerus. He was a very skilled wizard, and rather famous in his day. He was widely believed to have been the author of the _Pureblood Directory_.” Nott said, sounding unusually curt. Harry tried to control his face, but he could feel his lips twisting up into a grin. Nott scowled menacingly at him, dark eyes flashing, and Harry couldn’t help but laugh.

“Sorry,” he said, unconvincingly, and tried to smother his grin in his hand. Nott gave him a look of disdain to rival Ron’s, and Harry was suddenly hit with the memory of when Dudley’s gerbil, sick of his awful cousin poking and prodding it, had bitten the boy sharply on his thumb with all of its minuscule rage. Harry couldn’t help the giggle that burst out of him at the comparison. Poised or not, the look of clear contempt Nott was giving him now looked frankly comical on his thirteen-year-old face.

“If you’re done giggling at my ancestor’s names,” Nott said, coldly, turning his nose up at Harry with so much scorn that Harry couldn’t help but let off another round of giggles.

“I’m not-!”

“Mr. Potter!” hissed Madam Pince, appearing from behind a bookshelf and scowling at them as if they’d just started a bonfire in the middle of the library. “That’s quite enough of that, or you’ll both be out!” she whispered furiously. She turned her gaze on Nott and seemed to blink at him for a moment in shock. “Mr. Nott, I’m surprised at you!”

Nott’s scowl morphed immediately into a contrite look, which he aimed up at the librarian so sincerely that Harry had to quench the urge to laugh again. “I apologise, Madam Pince; we simply got a little carried away. It won’t happen again, I assure you.” His eyes cut to Harry’s threateningly, and Harry had to cough into his fist to hide a laugh.

The librarian’s gaze softened imperceptibly, before she turned another scowl onto Harry, who tried to look less openly amused. “See that it doesn’t,” she sniffed, before turning and sweeping back between the stacks, shooting a glare at some nearby second year Hufflepuffs, who jumped as one.

As soon as the librarian was out of sight, Nott levelled a look of sheer annoyance at Harry. “I’ve haven’t gotten in trouble by Pince since I started using this library, you absolute _Gryffindor_ ,” he said.

Harry had been trying to look chagrined, but Nott looked so utterly peeved at getting in trouble that he felt his face crack into a grin again. “You sound like Hermione,” he told the other boy delightedly. Nott watched him for a moment, before sighing resignedly.

“Honestly, Potter. You’re a _nightmare_ ,” he said, rolling his eyes. Harry noticed a dash of pink on Nott’s cheeks, and forced down another smile at the memory of how red Hermione got any time a teacher seemed the slightest bit displeased with her.

“Right,” Nott said, clearing his throat. He made an admirable attempt at smoothing out his face. “Now. Your grandparents?” he asked, quill at the ready.

This served to wipe all traces of mirth left on Harry’s face. “Er,” he said, after the silence began to stretch. Nott waited with his quill still poised, as Harry tried desperately to think of something to say.

He cleared his throat. “I’m actually – not sure,” he said, at last. He could feel his cheeks redden, and glanced down at his parchment, avoiding the other boy’s eyes.

As a child, his extended family had been a constant source of curiosity for him. When he and Dudley had been yougner, they’d been tasked as homework to draw a simple family tree. Aunt Petunia had been remarkably patient with Dudley during the exercise; the boy hadn’t made it easy. Harry, however, was given no help; every time he had ever asked his Aunt his parents’ names, she had scolded him, or ignored him, or sent him to his cupboard. But this time, Harry was persistent. His teacher had made them fill out their parents’ names on their trees in class, and every student had complied – except for Harry. When he admitted to his teacher that he didn’t know his parents’ names, she had frowned at him rather severely, and made it clear that she thought he was being difficult on purpose. When Harry repeatedly told her he didn’t know, his teacher got very cross and began scolding him in front of the whole class. Several of his classmates were giggling, and an equal number were shooting him scathing looks, as if he were holding them back on purpose. Dudley was just close enough that Harry could hear him gleefully whisper to his friends that Harry’s parents had given him up as a baby because he was so stupid, and, to his horror, he felt furious tears form in his eyes. Harry had burned with indignation like something was swallowing him from the inside, and, for the first time in his life, he had lost his temper with a teacher. The memory wasn’t pleasant. A letter was sent home stuffed in the bottom of his schoolbag under strict orders to be given to his Aunt, and all the way home Harry felt as if he was carrying the orders for his own execution. When his Aunt read the letter and demanded to know what, exactly, he had done, he had snapped (shocking even himself) at her that Mrs. Kerr had gotten him in trouble for not knowing his parents’ names, which he’d asked her for a million times, and if she had ever told him he wouldn’t be in trouble. His Aunt had stood frozen in the face of his rage, before twin spots of red overtook her cheeks. She had snapped to him, “Their names were Lily and James, you horrible boy. Now, go to your cupboard and don’t let me see you again tonight! Just you wait until your Uncle hears about this!”

Harry’s anger had gone as fast as it had arrived, replaced with a feeling that was light as air, but at the same time unimaginably heavy in his gut. Sitting in his cupboard that night (and for many nights after) Harry had repeated the names to himself over and over again like a mantra, seized with the terrible fear, like any child after such a monumental gift, that it might be taken away. In hindsight, his Aunt had probably just realised that it would be a little too suspicious if Harry appeared not to know his own parents’ names. As it was, his efforts at peeking at Dudley’s tree the next evening had earned him bed without dinner, again, and he’d resigned himself to making up the names for the rest of his family. Young as he was, he’d gotten wrapped up in the fiction; he had pulled the names of his Grandparents from one of Dudley’s television shows, heedless of how believable the names were, or how appalling (in hindsight) his spelling might have been. This, along with a swarth of cousins and Great-Aunts and -Uncles he’d invented, each with similarly fantastical and rather incomprehensible names - with a great deal of embarrassment, he recalled two Great-Aunts he’d unceremoniously named Cher and Madonna after scouring his Aunt’s CD collection - had given him away to his teacher. He’d received a letter home, along with a copy of his Family Tree. After his Aunt badgered him into admitting he’d made everything up, he was cupboard-bound for a week, and his Aunt, mystifyingly, moved her CDs into her and Vernon’s bedroom.

He’d never had any further luck in learning his grandparents’ names. Although his Aunt mentioned them from time to time, as he had gotten older Harry had the impression that his Aunt and her parents weren’t on good terms when they’d died; when Dudley occasionally asked about them, her face would take on the expression she usually wore when looking at or discussing Harry.

Harry shifted in his seat as he considered the desk in front of him. The silence stretched after his announcement, and Harry thought he could feel Nott’s dark eyes burrowing into his head as if trying to read his thoughts.

“Alright,” Nott said, simply. “Your father’s parents shouldn’t be hard to work out. They’re bound to be in most modern genealogy books, at least. I think Pince has one that’s self-updating.”

Harry swallowed, and glanced up. Nott was scanning back over his notes, frowning a little as he scribbled something in the margin, and Harry felt his shoulders relax. He wasn’t sure what he expected, but he knew if he’d admitted not knowing the names of his grandparents to Ron or Hermione, they’d find it hard to hide their pity – or their anger. And God knew what would happen if Malfoy heard him admit something like that. If Nott had any feelings on the matter, he hid them well.

“Right,” Harry said. “Yeah. Should I, er, do that now?” he asked, feeling a little like a young child hoping for direction.

Nott scratched something else out – Harry noted with mild annoyance that his handwriting was extremely neat - then looked up, closing his book. “It’s a little late. We should probably start heading back now,” he said, simply, watching Harry.

Harry blinked, and looked around the room. Sure enough, the Library was much emptier than it had been earlier. His friends – and the Slytherins – were still there (Harry noted with a rush of exasperated fondness that Ron seemed to be napping on one of Hermione’s thicker books), but the lamps were now all lit, and shadows crept across the walls. The whispers in the room had taken on that soft tone which only appeared in the evenings.

“Oh,” he said, and sat back to stretch his arms out. “Alright, then. I’ll, er. Do that research, and then d’you want to meet up again to finish things up?”

Nott nodded at him without looking up from where he was gathering his things. Glancing around, Harry noted with a start that the Slytherins were packing up, also. He felt his cheeks burn a little as he realised they had probably been waiting for him and Nott to finish up. Davis caught his eye and flashed him a smile, which Harry returned after a moment’s hesitation. After gathering their things, the trio stood idly at their table, chatting and clearly waiting for Nott. Harry turned to the other boy just as he swung his bag across his shoulders. Even after studying for a few hours in the library, Nott looked as composed as ever, not a crease on him. Harry didn’t want to imagine how rumpled and ink stained he looked by now. Nott was as orderly as ever, and even his hair was still neatly swept to the side, falling only slightly across his forehead. In the dim light near their corner, his hair looked a little darker, and his eyes looked black. Harry blinked. He quickly forced himself to look away from the other boy before he noticed him staring at his fringe like a lunatic.

They both paused awkwardly for a moment as they stood, and Harry’s mind went blank. “Er,” he said at last. “Goodnight, then. I’ll see you – soon. Thanks for – you know.” Nott’s eyes flicked briefly down to Harry’s front, and Harry realised after a horrifying moment that he was clutching his own bag to his chest tightly as if shielding himself from something. He quickly shrugged it off onto the desk, clearing his throat as he tried to make the action look casual.

Nott was smirking, the bastard. “Goodnight, Potter,” he said, mild as ever, and Harry shot him a half-hearted scowl at the amusement in his voice. Nott eased his way around the table and gave him a quick nod, before joining the Slytherins, who fell into step with him immediately. Harry watched them until they were out of sight, before turning to the table his friends were sitting at. Hermione, of course, was too engrossed in her essay to notice anything, and Harry noticed with mingled horror and amusement that she seemed to be on her fourth scroll of parchment. She hadn’t even noticed that Ron had begun drooling on her book where his face was smushed (surely very uncomfortably) on the hardback cover. With a smile, he gathered his things and headed over to his friends.

*

Harry’s good mood lasted less than three minutes on the walk back to the tower before he remembered his friend’s bizarre behaviour. He whirled on Ron, who blinked at him warily.

“Mate – what the hell was that? I thought you were alright with me studying with the Slytherins?” Harry’s earlier annoyance was quickly catching up to him.

The corridor around them was empty, but Ron glanced up and down shiftily before shrugging. “I dunno what you mean, mate,” he mumbled.

“Honestly, Ron,” Hermione chimed in, an annoyed frown on her face. “You were glaring at them like they’d challenged you to a duel or something.”

Ron wilted under their combined glares. He let out a gusty sigh and turned an uncharacteristically serious look on his friends. “Listen, Harry. What do you actually _know_ about him?”

Harry blinked. “Who, Nott? I mean - not very much. What d’you mean?”

Hermione was looking between them with a confused expression. “Ron? You know they don’t know each other very well. Why are you asking that?”

Footsteps broke the silence. All three heads jerked in the direction of the noise, but it was only a pair of seventh year Ravenclaws. The taller of the two gave them a strange look as they huddled silently near a window, staring, but the pair passed without comment. As soon as they were out of sight, Harry turned back to Ron, and noticed that the boy’s ears had steadily turned bright red.

Harry and Hermione’s eyes narrowed as one. It got them in trouble with teachers more often than not, but sometimes it was helpful that Ron was so terrible at keeping secrets.

“Ron,” Hermione said, crossing her arms and fixing him with her most severe frown. “What did you do?”

Ron was looking distinctly guilty now. “Er,” he said. Harry shot him a look, trying to channel the scowl Nott had given him earlier. “Fine,” Ron said, rolling his eyes with an ungracious pout. “After you told me about hanging out with Nott, I, well, I wrote to my dad about him.”

Well, that was unexpected. “Alright,” Harry said, slowly. He met Hermione’s eyes, but she seemed as unsure as he was. “What did he say?”

Ron’s discomfort was palpable. He glanced down the corridor again, as if looking for escape.

“Ronald Weasley-!“ Hermione began, before Ron cut her off.

“His dad was a Death Eater!” he blurted.

There was a horrible moment of silence. Hermione’s face had gone rather blank and pale as she and Ron exchanged an unreadable look.

“Er,” said Harry, feeling rather suddenly out of his depth. “What the hell’s a Death Eater?”

*

They’d ended up talking late into the night. After Hemione had ushered them back to the Common Room, the trio splayed themselves out on their usual couch, and the ensuing conversation took up the rest of their evening. After an unintentionally loud ‘Voldemort’ from Harry made a passing first year jump almost a foot in the air and turn wide eyes on he group, they managed to lower their volume a little. They’d discussed the Death Eaters – the official name for the most strident of Voldemort’s supporters during the war. Mr. Weasley had warned his son that Nott’s father was a particularly nasty character and was strongly rumoured to have been one of Voldemort’s oldest and most dedicated supporters. He’d apparently gotten off without time in Azkaban by pleading he’d been bewitched, like Lucius Malfoy had. They’d been unable to prove anything – or, more likely, according to Mr. Weasley, money had changed hands – but it seemed to be an open secret that the Notts were very proud of their Pureblood heritage, and most people knew Nott Sr. had likely been a true follower of the Dark Lord.

Hermione, naturally, had read a bit about them, and was able to fill in any gaps in Ron’s account. The conversation had opened up a lot of questions between them. Harry had wondered, darkly, how many other followers of Voldemort had gotten away with their actions during the war, and how many people knew about it, but couldn’t do anything. Hermione had been equally grim when she told him that it was likely a good few more.

It was patently clear that Ron was worried about Harry spending time with Nott in light of this discovery, and Harry couldn’t quite fault him. The conversation had gone around in circles, eventually, until they had decided to call it a night. Lying awake in his Dorm, though, Harry couldn’t quite shut his thoughts off so easily.

The problem was - he simply had no idea what to do with this information. He’d suspected that Nott’s family might be unsavoury – of course, he thought, shifting on his bed uncomfortably, he’d seen Nott’s bruise that day. He knew that his father couldn’t be a _good_ man. But being a close follower of the man who murdered Harry’s parents – who had come after him again in first year, and whose shadow had almost killed him and Ginny just last year; it was too difficult to process.

But did Nott’s father being Dark mean that Nott was the same way? Harry racked his brain looking for anything the boy might have given away, but he came up blank. Nott didn’t seem close to any Muggle-borns, but Harry supposed that there weren’t any Slytherin Muggle-borns in their year. And Harry hadn’t seen him stand up to Malfoy, but Harry couldn’t think of a clear time Malfoy had spouted his bigotry in front of the other boy. Harry truthfully hadn’t noticed Nott or the other Slytherins much before this year. And wasn’t Davis a Half-blood, and openly interested in Muggles? Surely, if Nott hated Muggles, he wouldn’t be so comfortable with the girl? The arguments circled endlessly in Harry’s mind. The truth was that he just didn’t know Nott all that well. Harry tried to reconcile the things he’d heard of the Death Eaters with Nott’s gentle smile that day in the Forest, watching Davis try and befriend a Bowtruckle, and just couldn’t. But hadn’t everyone said that Voldemort was charming in his day? People could feign friendship and kindness. It was just – too difficult.

Judging Nott by his father’s actions felt wrong, too. Remembering every cruel and unfair thing Snape had said to him based on his hatred of James Potter, Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being unfair. But, he reasoned, Harry’s dad had hardly been a Death Eater; surely it wasn’t the same. Merlin, did the other Slytherins know? Bullstrode was a mystery, but Harry couldn’t imagine the easy-going Zabini or Muggle-studies championing Davis being friends with someone who supported Voldemort.

It was all too confusing, Harry thought. What should he do? The room around him was dark and mercifully free from snoring tonight, but Harry couldn’t stop his thoughts long enough quiet his mind. Sleep was a long time coming that night, and Harry woke feeling more uncertain than ever.

*

Sometime after lunch the next day, Harry found himself once again outside Professor Lupin’s door. A half-baked idea had come to him over his meal, and Harry had decided to follow it without any more thought in the matter. Now, standing outside the door to Lupin’s office, Harry tried to quash the uncertainty in his stomach and lifted his hand to rap stiffly against the door, before shoving his hand in his pocket and taking a step back.

“Enter,” came the Professor’s voice from within.

Before he could talk himself out of it, Harry had opened the door and entered the office.

It was as unkempt as the last time he’d been here, and the Professor looked as untidy as usual, but the man shot him a happily surprised smile when he caught sight of him

“Harry,” the man said, warmly, and Harry felt his cheeks warm a little. “To what do I owe this visit?” the Professor asked, indicating the chair Harry had occupied last time.

“Er,” Harry began, but the Professor cut him off by standing with a hum and turning to the kettle behind his desk.

“Tea?” the man asked, and Harry nodded before remembering the man couldn’t see him. He cleared his throat.

“Ah, yes please, sir,” he said, and glanced over to the desk the man had vacated. Lupin seemed to have been in the middle of marking. Harry hastily scanned the parchment on the desk in case it was his own essay, but the handwriting was thankfully unfamiliar.

Lupin returned after a moment, and sat Harry’s tea down in front of him, before resuming his own seat.

“Now, Harry. What can I do for you?” he asked, sitting back and watching the boy with a kind smile.

“Right.” Harry cleared his throat again. “So, er, I wondered if it would be okay if I asked you something about… well, about my parents.” Harry said, watching the man carefully.

Lupin’s mouth straightened a little, but beyond that his face was rather blank. He didn’t look surprised.

“I wondered if you might,” the man muttered, seemingly to himself, before he nodded slowly, and gave Harry a rather subdued smile.

“Of course, Harry. You can ask me anything you’d like about them. Though I don’t promise to know everything, naturally, I’ll answer to the best of my abilities. What did you want to know?”

Harry was suddenly a little lightheaded. _Anything_ , Lupin had said. Whenever Harry so much as mentioned his parents, his Aunt Petunia had acted like he’d been discussing the finer points of the sewage system. Harry, very suddenly, had no idea what to say.

Lupin must have seen something in his face, for his smile became more real and horribly kind. Harry averted his gaze.

Lupin saved him. “Was there something specific you came to ask about today?”

Here was his chance. Harry sent a silent prayer that his voice wouldn’t waver. “Actually, yeah. Did you know that I, er, dropped Divination?”

Lupin’s lips twitched and amusement glinted in his strange eyes for a moment. “Ah, yes, I believe Professor McGonagall may have mentioned it in passing.”

Harry gave him a strange look. “Yeah, so, I ended up picking Arithmancy instead, and turns out I’ve got this project…”

Lupin smiled widely this time, leaning back in his seat. “An excellent choice, Harry. I was very fond of Arithmancy in school. Such a useful subject – it’s a shame they wait until third year to introduce it.”

_Oh Merlin,_ Harry thought. _He really is another Hermione._

Harry nodded politely and floundered for something to say. “Ah, yeah, I heard it’s... handy,” he managed, lamely.

Lupin chuckled. “Sorry, Harry. You were saying?”

“Right,” Harry continued, “so we have to create personal charts for our partners, and, well, there’s some information that I… uh… I’m not too sure about.”

Lupin frowned. “It’s been a long time since I’ve written a personal chart, but I don’t recall needing all that much information about parentage. Just names, really. Are you wondering about their middle-names?”

“No, I- wait, middle-names? Did they have any?” Harry only realised he’d sat forward when his arm bumped precariously against his tea. He steadied the mug absently.

Lupin was looking a little bemused. “James didn’t, but I think your mum did. Lily Jane Evans, I believe.”

“Lily Jane,” Harry mumbled. He felt seven years old again, learning about his parents for the first time. Suddenly, the scope of what he didn’t know about them felt insurmountable. The unfairness of the situation hit him out of nowhere – why did he have to scramble for titbits about his parents from one of his bloody professors, when they should have been here to tell him everything themselves?

He swallowed thickly, and swallowed again when his throat still felt full.

“Harry,” Lupin said, gently. “Would you like to have this conversation another time?”

Harry shook his head firmly, still not looking up from where he found his hands were clenched tightly around his mug. The ceramic was far too hot, but he couldn’t seem to let go.

“Okay,” said Lupin. “Let me just get a fresh cup, and we’ll continue.”

Harry knew the man’s mug was still full, but he made no comment as the man busied himself with his back to him.

_Pull yourself together_ , Harry told himself sternly. _It’s only a silly name._ Harry sighed. He was unconvincing even to himself.

Lily Jane.

Harry had managed to push down the feeling crawling up his throat by the time Lupin returned with a steaming mug. He was able to lift his eyes from the desk in front of him, but meeting the Professor’s eyes was too much. Harry settled for gazing somewhere near his nose. Merlin, but the man was scarred. One of them went straight across from his right cheek into the flesh of his nose. Harry shivered momentarily imagining what creature would be capable of that. Certainly not a Bowtruckle.

Lupin cleared his throat and Harry started guiltily.

“So, what information do you need for your chart?” Lupin asked, tone once again even.

“Ah,” Harry said, sitting up a little. “It was my Grandparents, sir. I need their names to complete it.”

Harry couldn’t see Lupin’s expression, but his silence was revealing. After a pause of several seconds, Harry heard Lupin sigh. “I suppose your Aunt wouldn’t know the names of James’ parents. I’m sorry, Harry. I hadn’t thought of – well. I suppose it didn’t occur to us how much might be kept from you.”

Harry took a sip of tea and held in a grimace. Wow, Lupin liked his tea sugary.

“Well. Your father’s parents were named Euphemia and Fleamont.” Lupin said, simply.

Harry did look up at this. “Seriously?” he blurted. Lupin’s lips twitched into a smirk.

“Indeed. Very Pureblood names, unfortunately. Would you like me to write them down for you, for the spelling?”

Harry only had to think for a moment before nodding gratefully. Lupin smiled again and summoned a piece of parchment, before writing the names down with his nearby quill. His handwriting was neat and precise, Harry noted as he passed the parchment over, somewhat like Nott’s. He held the paper reverently. Euphemia and Fleamont – his witch and wizard grandparents. Harry hadn’t given much consideration to the fact that he came from a very long line of wizards and witches – being raised by the Dursleys, he supposed, made it very hard to rationalise the fact that he was likely the first person in the Potter family to be raised as a muggle. But now, the idea was surprisingly gripping. He was filled, suddenly, with the desire to know everything about them. But how much could Lupin actually tell him?

“Did you ever meet them?” he asked eagerly, thoughts of avoiding the man’s eyes suddenly gone.

Lupin smiled. “I did, yes, briefly. Several times. They were always there to meet James at Kings Cross at the end of term. Blindingly proud of him, they were. You’d think no one had ever had a child before.” Lupin’s smile had gone a little sad. Harry jumped in before the man could be distracted.

“What were they like? What did they do?”

“Ah, your grandfather was actually a rather accomplished potioneer. Have you heard of Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion?”

Harry shook his head.

“Well, your grandfather invented it. It was very successful – particularly in America. He sold the company eventually, but it’s still a very popular product. And it made rather a great deal of gold, I’d imagine.”

Harry didn’t know what to say. His grandfather was a _Potioneer_? And invented an apparently famous Hair Potion? Harry felt a sudden quiver of guilt over his frequent Troll grades in Potions. Did Snape know about this? _Fuck_ , Harry thought, _he probably does_.

“That’s… brilliant,” Harry managed eventually. “Do you know much about my, er, grandmother?” The term still seemed strange to use.

Lupin hummed. “I don’t believe her career was as successful as your grandfather’s, unfortunately. Truthfully, I don’t quite recall her profession. They were both rather old when they had James, you see – I believe they were mostly enjoying their galleons when I knew them. I do remember that she wrote some articles for the _Prophet_ , though I don’t remember what they were about. I only remember because she had a few published while we were still at school, and those were the only times James would bother to get the paper.” Lupin had that sad faraway smile again, and Harry shifted awkwardly in his seat. It was odd to see someone else so quietly sad over his parents – someone they were evidently very close to.

Harry shifted in his seat – should he disturb the Professor? It was impossible not to feel suddenly out of his element. Thankfully, Lupin spared him having to decide.

“Well,” the Professor said, blinking back into focus. “Was there anything else you wanted to know about them?”

“Er,” said Harry, “actually, I was wondering about my mum’s parents, too? I know you said you were mostly my dad’s friend, but…” Harry found himself unable to finish his sentence – to voice that there was no one else he could think of to ask.

Lupin’s genial look vanished at this, replaced surprisingly by a frown. His scars complimented the expression, making the normally gentle man look suddenly rather formidable. His hands folded gently around his mug as he watched Harry thoughtfully. “Your mother’s parents? I’m not sure I can tell you more than your Aunt has, I’m afraid.”

Harry fought valiantly to fight down a flush. Merlin, he hated this. But, if he could actually learn something about them…

“Erm, she didn’t actually, you know… talk about them. I don’t think they really got along. So I don’t, y’know, know their names, or anything like that,” he shrugged, and quickly took another sip of his tea.

Lupin paused again, for a long moment, while Harry focused intently on his drink. Rather milky, too. Harry hoped absently that the man was making his own tea as full of milk and sugar – he still looked under the weather, and Harry was beginning to suspect this was the man’s natural state.

Lupin broke the silence at last. “I see,” he said. His voice sounded peculiarly controlled, and Harry glanced up in surprise to see a rather blank look on his face, save for a slight twisting of his lips. “Well,” Professor Lupin continued, slowly, “I only met them a few times – once, I think at Kings Cross, our last year, and again at your parents’ wedding. They were a lovely couple. Your mother’s eyes – she got them from her dad, you know. His name was Will – William Evans. Her hair, too, though his wasn’t as vibrant.” He paused for a moment; his eyes lost somewhere in the distance. “He was very kind, I remember. I had – some health difficulties, at the time,” (Harry attempted to look politely surprised) “and your grandfather was awfully kind about it – kept checking in on me during the wedding. Your mother inherited his good nature, I think.”

The Professor smiled at him, and Harry found himself smiling back involuntarily. The man leaned forward to glance into Harry’s half-finished mug, before bringing his wand up to tap gently against its side. The tea immediately began steaming. “Thanks,” Harry said, ducking his head a little and taking a sip to hide his face. Lupin hummed in acknowledgement before doing the same to his own tea.

“Not to say, of course, that your grandmother wasn’t good natured. Going from my few meetings with her, and your mother’s stories, I believe she was just as kind as your grandfather – just rather more reserved, I think. She was fiercely intelligent, from what I knew. Even just from meeting her those few times – there was something about her. Like she was always thinking about something else, something complicated. She reminded me a little of the Headmaster in that way. Perhaps not on that level, but, well. I remember Lily mentioning that she didn’t get away with much, growing up.” They shared a smile, again, before Lupin’s face became a little wistful. “Unfortunately, at the time she was growing up, being a woman – well. I remember your mother mentioning that she felt her talents were being wasted.”

There was an amicable pause for a moment while Harry digested this. He could almost see them in his mind – his grandad, with Harry’s own eyes and a gentle smile, next to this reserved, brilliant woman. That bitterness he had felt when talking to Ginny about her family reared its head again, slithering up from his stomach through his throat. Harry was getting rather sick of pushing it back down.

Both of their heads turned towards the door as they heard footsteps approach, but whoever it was passed the door and the steps became fainter as they turned the corner.

Harry turned back to the Professor. “What, uh, I mean – you said she was smart. Was there something in particular…?”

Lupin smiled. “I think she was just about good at everything she set her mind to. But – physics, I think, and maths. Numbers. She was a genius with numbers. I believe when Lily was a little older, she began teaching at a local secondary school. I suspect she was a formidable teacher, from what Lily told me.” He seemed to be momentarily lost in a memory, a small secret smile on his lips.

_A genius_ , Harry thought, a little numbly _._ Harry sipped his tea while he tried to wrap his head around all that Professor Lupin had told him. If she was a genius, that meant there was brilliance on both sides of his family – by all rights, he should be doing amazing things. Surviving attempted murder as a baby under mysterious circumstances seemed rather pale in comparison to their achievements. He thought for a second, with a horrible sweeping feeling in his stomach, that maybe it was better they had never known him; sitting there with average marks and no real interest in academics, it was impossible to think they could have ever been proud of him. _Stop it_ , he told himself firmly. His family being ashamed of him wasn’t anything new; he could think about this later, when he wasn’t wasting valuable time he could be using to learn more about them.

“Er, what was her name, sir?” Harry asked at length. He had come here for a reason, after all.

“Oh, sorry, Harry. It was Dottie – Dorothy, really, but I don’t think anyone called her that. Dottie and Will.”

There was another moment’s silence before Harry asked, “How did they… uh…”

Lupin’s face was unbearably gentle. “It was a car accident, I believe. Shortly after your parents were married.”

The man opened his mouth to go on, but stopped after catching sight of Harry’s face.

“A car accident,” Harry said, in a voice he didn’t quite recognise. So – his Aunt had given his parents the death of _her_ parents, in her cover story when he was a child. What was that – spite? Or some sort of displaced – something? The room seemed too loud and bright, suddenly, and Harry could feel something swirling dangerously in his stomach. Harry had no idea what this was he was feeling, only that there was so much of it he felt he might choke on it. He became aware, vaguely, of the sound of a tea spoon vibrating frenetically against the side of a mug before a large, thin hand came into his vision, resting just short of where his own hand seemed to be clenched into a fist on the Professor’s desk.

“Harry,” a voice said, gentle and firm all at once, and Harry felt himself blinking back into the present. With a muffled _clink_ from somewhere near the kettle, Harry began to feel whatever had taken hold of him – recede.

Professor Lupin was watching him unreadably. Harry looked up at him, then down to his hand resting hesitantly near his. “Sorry,” he mumbled, somehow unable to tear his eyes away from the ink-stained fingers so close to his own. He couldn’t think of the last time an adult had tried to reach out to him physically with that kind of gentleness. He instinctively wanted to shy away from it, but he couldn’t bring himself to move. He trailed the hand’s progress as it returned over to Lupin’s side of the desk and wrapped itself around the man’s mug.

Harry’s mouth felt painfully dry. “Sorry, sir, I…” he tried again. His cheeks began to redden as he realised that, yes, he had just made a fool of himself in front of his Defence Professor – the only man who could tell him these kinds of stories about his family. What if he decided Harry was too delicate to know any more?

Harry looked up, suddenly desperate to make sure the man knew he was fine. “I’m sorry – I just – I never knew how they died, and…”

Lupin was sombre, and Harry’s face burned at the compassion in the man’s eyes. “Harry,” he said, letting out a sigh. “You don’t have to apologise. This is an awful lot to unload onto you all at once. Perhaps too much…”

“No!” Harry interjected, panic lacing through him. “No, sir, honest, I’m fine. That was – I was just shocked. It’s not too much, sir, I promise.”

The Professor looked a little doubtful, but after watching Harry for a moment longer, he slowly nodded his head.

“All right, but perhaps not much more for today. Was there anything else you needed, for your chart?”

Harry had momentarily forgotten the purpose of this visit. “Oh,” he said. “Er, I think it’s just the names, really. Do you know, um, if they had middle-names, by any chance?”

Lupin frowned apologetically. “I’m afraid I’ve no idea. For the Evans family… I think only your Aunt would know. But for the Potters, you might have some luck with Genealogy texts. The library should have a few.”

Harry hmmed. “That’s what Nott suggested.”

The Professor raised an eyebrow. “Oh,” Harry said, “my Arithmancy partner. Er, Theodore Nott? He’s in, uh, Slytherin.”

Now both the Professor’s eyebrows were raised. “I see,” he said, slowly. “Have you two been getting along alright?” Lupin’s tone was very even, and Harry felt himself shifting a little in his seat. Why on earth had he brought up Nott?

“Oh, yeah. I mean, he’s fine. We’ve, uh… studied together, actually, a few times, before now. Him and his friends.”

“Really,” Lupin said. Harry could tell the man was surprised and was trying to hide it. Merlin – would Lupin want him to be nice to Nott, or to hate him? He hoped, rather fervently, that it was the former. 

Harry thought around desperately for something that would endear Nott to the man. “Er, he’s really studious, you know. And,” he said, thinking back to his first conversation with the man, “he’s the friend I mentioned who really likes Charms.”

Harry may have been rambling; Lupin now looked more than a little bemused. After a long moment, the man simply said, “I’m glad you’re branching out to other Houses for friends, Harry. I worry sometimes that the importance we place on the Sorting can make us all a bit too insular.”

“Er, right,” Harry said. That sounded a little like what he and his friends had been discussing.

Harry shifted a little in his seat, wondering if it’d be impolite to ask, but, well, why not. “Sir? If you were friends with my parents, does that mean you were in Gryffindor too?” Harry rather suspected the man was more fit for Ravenclaw, considering the state of his office, but he supposed Hermione showed there was more to the Sorting than that.

Lupin smiled, and thankfully didn’t seem to think the question was inappropriate. “I was, in fact. I shared a dorm with your father for seven years.”

Harry found he was rather pleased that he and Lupin shared a House, but it brought up one question he was a bit uncomfortable asking. “Did my parents, er – did they have many friends outside of Gryffindor, sir?”

Lupin looked away for a moment and seemed to be thinking something over carefully. Harry felt nerves flutter in his stomach – what, did his parents staunchly hate interhouse mingling?

Lupin made up his mind before Harry could talk himself into a panic. “Actually,” the man said, a strange look on his face, “your mother’s best friend in school was a Slytherin.”

Harry felt something funny flutter in his stomach. “What?” he said. “Are you – really?” He’d seen some Gryffindors and Slytherins, on rare occasions, getting along fine, but _best friends_? The thought was completely bizarre – and strangely tantalising.

Lupin’s smile was still strange. “Yes, for most of school. I think they – lost touch, eventually, and… I’m sorry, Harry, I don’t think it’s really my place to go into it. I’m not sure the person in question would want me discussing it. I hope you understand.”

Harry felt indignation well up in him - this was his dead mother they were discussing – surely that trumped whatever was holding Lupin back; but the man looked so genuinely apologetic and uncomfortable that Harry felt his anger melt away as quickly as it had come. “Alright,” he sighed. His tea was gone, now, but he clutched the mug to him to give his hands something to do.

“What about my dad? Did he have friends outside Gryffindor?” 

Lupin’s face displayed his feelings plainly before he could mask them, and Harry felt something heavy fall into his stomach and take up residence. “Er,” said Lupin, rather uncomfortably. “No, I don’t think he had too many friends outside of Gryffindor. We were all very close, though, in our year, Harry, and although your father was very popular, he was largely content with our group. He didn’t really seek out new friends.”

Lupin spoke hastily, as if desperate to get his point across. He was trying to catch Harry’s eye, but it was Harry’s turn to stare ahead of him, trying not to lose himself in his thoughts.

“It’s alright, Professor,” he said, eventually.

There was a silence for several moments. Harry couldn’t tell if it was amicable or uncomfortable. He couldn’t seem to turn his brain off, though, and he found himself bringing up the subject again without conscious thought.

“I – er – I don’t really think I’m friends with them yet. The Slytherins, I mean. But… I think I want to be.” Lupin was watching him, face blank but attentive. “Do you think… I mean, I’m just not sure…” Harry frowned. He couldn’t seem to organise his thoughts.

“What’s troubling you about it, Harry? Does he not want to be friends?” Lupin asked after a moment.

“No,” Harry said, hastily. “It’s just, well…” Lupin seemed to be about to say something else, and Harry found himself blurting it out. “I know that his dad was a Dead Eater.”

Lupin blinked. He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. He frowned. “A – a Death Eater, Harry?”

Harry gave him a strange look. “Yeah, one of those. Voldemort’s supporters.”

“Right,” said Lupin, lips twitching bizarrely. Harry’s frown seemed to snap him out of whatever thought he was in, and his attention turned serious again.

“Yes,” he said after a moment. “You’re right, I think. Nott Sr. was a rather prominent Death Eater in the first war. Where did you hear about it, though, Harry? Did… Did Nott tell you?” His face was rather pinched.

“What?” said Harry. “No. Arthur Weasley did. Er – Ron wrote to him, and he told him that Nott Sr. was a Death Eater, and a nasty one. So, I suppose I’m just – not sure what to do about that,” Harry shrugged, and wished he knew how to actually explain all of his thoughts properly for once.

Lupin frowned thoughtfully. Footsteps passed the office door again, and both occupants listened to them fade. After a few moments, the Professor sighed. “That’s a tricky one, Harry. Are you unsure if you want to continue your relationship knowing his father was aligned with Lord Voldemort? Or are you simply unsure if you _should_ want to?”

Harry stared. Not only because Lupin was so perceptive, or that he’d used the word _relationship_ , but because he had never heard anyone beyond himself and Dumbledore say Voldemort’s name out loud.

“Er,” he said, after a moment. “A bit of both, I suppose. I mean, he doesn’t – seem like the sort of person who’d agree with that stuff. The Pureblood Supremacy stuff, I mean. He’s never expressed anything like that, and he seems fine around Half-bloods… But I don’t know him that well, and it seems like a big thing to ignore… It just seems so unfair to hold what his father did against him. Just because he’s got this Dark thing hanging over him, that shouldn’t mean people treat him badly. It’s not his fault,” Harry trailed off. He was just repeating arguments he’d had with himself over and over again. He could tell he was looking rather glum and tried to straighten his face up a little.

Lupin wasn’t paying him any attention, however. Something complicated was happening across his face, and the man seemed to be thinking heavily before speaking. “I don’t think you should ignore it, regardless, but…” he sighed. “I can’t tell you what to do here, Harry. It would be unfair to write the boy off for being from a Dark family, but it would also be foolish to ignore the fact. I think… there’s a lot to be said for judging a person based on their own merit. If Mr. Nott seems like a good person to you, then I encourage you to pursue the friendship.” Lupin seemed to mull something over for a moment before continuing. “I think – that perhaps we all have certain things which cast shadows upon us. Looking beyond those shadows to the person underneath is sometimes difficult, but it can be the most rewarding thing a person can experience. If you want to carry on as you have been, then do so, Harry. Just – be careful, will you?”

Harry felt rather young, all of a sudden. He nodded, not sure what to say. Perhaps Lupin was right. He knew all he was going to, at the moment. And he wanted to be Nott’s friend – he could admit that easily, now. He wanted to be friends with all of them – Zabini, Davis, and even Bullstrode. If it turned out to be the wrong choice, then, well – Harry had made plenty of those before. He would deal with that if it came to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Harry stared' is, of course, from POA. I always found it delightful that Remus is the first adult Harry meets aside from Dumbledore who uses Voldemort's name. As you may be able to tell, Remus will likely play a large role in this fic.
> 
> I also want to reiterate that there will be no bashing in this fic - including of Ron. He's simply protective of Harry, and a little bit quick to judge. Ron and Hermione will always be Harry's closest friends.
> 
> Sorry this chapter was largely dialogue - this was definitely the hardest chapter so far to write. An unfortunate case of trying to get from A to B within a chapter which will set up a lot of important plot points.
> 
> You will also not believe the amount of time i spent trying to work out what would be considered tall for a 13 year old boy. My god. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for the kind reviews! They really make my day and helped me finish up this chapter. Until next time!


	10. Fateful Flights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some talk and description of blood in this chapter, and one instance of vomiting. If anyone would like additional warnings, let me know.

The echo of Harry’s feet followed in his wake as he trailed down the empty corridor. He was moving without a direction in mind, hoping the action would help smooth over his surly mood. It was Halloween. This would normally be a strange day for Harry – as spectacular as the decorations and Feast were, it was also the anniversary of his parents’ deaths. This year, however, there was an added layer of misery: it was the third years’ first ever Hogsmeade trip, and Harry was the only student unable to go.

After the events of the summer, it was no wonder his Uncle hadn’t signed his permission form, but Harry had been hoping for some leniency from the teachers, owing to the circumstances. Unfortunately for him, he was to be disappointed. It was hard not to feel bitter watching his friends trail off to spend a no-doubt very fun day in the village, while he had to stay behind, alone. He had even spied the Slytherins trudging off merrily in their group (well, as merrily as Nott or Bullstrode were wont to be); Ron and Hermione had felt awful leaving him, and he felt a twinge of guilt now at spoiling their excitement. He had tried to look unbothered, but they both knew him too well to be fooled. With the promise of many sweets upon their return, they had set off, Hermione casting him anxious looks over her shoulder until he disappeared from view.

Harry suspected that the situation with Sirius Black hadn’t helped matters; the adults were all rather jumpy around the subject of Black and the Dementors (with the exception of Snape, who Harry had long suspected to be some sort of distant cousin to the horrible things); the idea of setting him loose in Hogsmeade, unprotected, would likely lead to all sorts of bother. Harry had tried to be rational about it, but he couldn’t help the niggling feeling that they all saw him as someone delicate who couldn’t handle himself.

He had briefly entertained the thought of visiting Lupin again, but had quickly decided against it. Harry hadn’t seen the Professor outside of class since their conversation in his office the week before; he had left that afternoon feeling more than a little spent, and hindsight had only added a layer of embarrassment to the situation. He’d learned more about his family than he probably had since Hagrid had told him he was a Wizard. And, he reminded himself, he had confided in the Professor about his conflicted feelings surrounding Nott. Harry felt himself his ears burn at even the memory. He wasn’t sure what had prompted him to bring the boy up, but he was rather firm in his decision to perhaps avoid the Professor for a little while.

He and Nott had finally finished their Personal Charts. Their second meeting (thankfully, sans Ron and the others) had gone smoothly in comparison to their first, but Harry couldn’t help but feel that he was making no progress towards actually befriending the distant boy. They had kept their conversation strictly on Arithmancy, and there was no resurgence of the strange atmosphere that had overtaken them when Harry was laughing at Nott’s grandfather’s name. Nott hadn’t asked him where he’d gotten the information about his grandparents, and Harry felt, bizarrely, a little disappointed.

He was now officially caught up on his Arithmancy work, and classes had been going… fine. He wasn’t exactly a natural, but Hermione and Nott had been right that the material came easier to him when he had a solid grasp of the theory. Ron had also cooled down a little about the other boy’s Death Eater connection. After Harry’s talk with Lupin, and after mulling the issue around in his head for a few more nights, Harry had told his friends of his decision to carry on as normal with the Slytherins. Hermione and Ron both seemed unsurprised, and thankfully posed no argument, though they both made him promise to be careful until they knew more. Harry had agreed easily.

At the moment, Harry’s feet seemed to have taken him downwards. The chill in the air signified that he was close to the dungeons, and Harry idly wished he’d brought his robes with him for his walk. On weekends, plenty of students forewent their robes entirely, wearing normal – or, rather, Muggle, Harry supposed – clothes instead. It was mostly only Pureblood students who wore robes as part of their everyday clothes. Harry couldn’t deny, right now, that they were at least warmer than his jumper and baggy jeans.

As he turned listlessly onto another corridor, a noise up ahead caught his attention. It sounded like voices – and not peaceful ones. Harry crept towards where the corridor branched off ahead of him. Approaching as quietly as possible, Harry began to make out the sounds of several people – older students, or maybe teachers? He strained his ears to try and make out any of the voices, but it was no use. A sudden low, cruel laugh sent a shiver of anticipation through him. Whatever scene he was stumbling onto, it wasn’t pleasant.

A horribly familiar cry of “Hey!” vanished all thoughts of sneaking around from his mind. Without a moment’s thought, Harry darted forwards around the corner and took in the sight in front of him.

Two older students – sixth or seventh years – were towering over three small figures. Harry recognised them at once. With a jolt in his stomach, Harry saw that the dark haired one – Ruth, he recalled – was on the floor, and blood was dripping steadily from her nose down her chin, and pooling unevenly on the stone floor. Little Astoria and the gangly, terrified-looking Corwin were crouched protectively in front of her, wands in shaking fingers. Harry’s eyes swept over them quickly, but neither looked hurt – only scared, in Corwin’s case, and shockingly furious, in Astoria’s. Harry’s eyes swivelled to the older students as one of them let out another laugh. They were a boy and a girl, Harry could see now: tall, blonde, and sneering. A Slytherin and Ravenclaw, respectively. Harry saw that the girl had a Prefect badge pinned to her robes and had to swallow suddenly, utter fury rushing through him.

“What the _hell_ ’ _s_ going on here?” he managed to choke out. The three first years jumped as one, and Harry had to swallow again at the sheer relief that appeared on all three faces as they caught sight of him.

The older students had looked wary at Harry’s exclamation, but now both faces – and Harry could tell, now, that they were related – stretched into eerily similar grins. “Oh, look,” the boy said, and Harry could hear the cruelty in his low voice. “It’s little Harry Potter to the rescue.” He smirked down at Harry with unnervingly cold blue eyes. Harry had moved closer and had to suppress a twinge of fear at just how much the two towered over him.

The girl glanced from his ratty trainers to his wild hair, rolling her eyes dismissively with a slight curl to her lip, before turning her attention unerringly back on the first years, who seemed to tense under her stare. “This doesn’t concern you, Potter,” she said, not taking her eyes off the younger students. “Leave now, and we’ll pretend we never saw you.” Her eyes were somehow colder than her brother’s.

“Wh- I’m not going to leave!” Harry snapped, standing straighter. “Ruth, are you alright?” He aimed this at the girl who was still on the floor, but he didn’t take his eyes off the older students. Neither had their wands drawn, but Harry noticed that their hands were resting, casually, near their pockets. Careful to move slowly, Harry’s own hand began inching towards where his wand rested in his jeans, and Harry saw both sets of blue eyes tracking his movement.

“I’m okay,” came Ruth’s sniffled reply. Out of the corner of his vision, Harry saw the girl slowly rise to her feet. Her face was flaming red, and she held her wrist gingerly as she stood. His gaze flickered back to the blood on the stone below her, and Harry suddenly couldn’t take his eyes away. He blinked, and then it was himself on the ground, with Dudley and his friends sneering down at him; pain pulsing from his nose, or his ankle, or his stomach. Blood, startlingly dark on the pavement. He remembered, on several occasions, a person appearing in his vision – other children, eager to see a fight, or in one horrible case, a woman Harry knew to be friends with his aunt. He could remember clearly the burst of feeling in him, sharp in his mouth the first few times, the way relief and desperation and gratitude and a sliver of unendurable shame had all rushed through him at the sight of the newcomer. And he remembered, just as clearly, the way those feelings slowly, quietly, dripped away each time his potential saviours turned away, looked at the ground, hung their heads – or sneered. He remembered the dawning numbness that swiftly pushed out his hope for a feeling that was too dark to be called anger. The burgeoning hatred that grew and grew as he realised no one was ever coming to help him.

Watching Ruth now, her rapidly watering eyes trained on the ground, an embarrassed flush to her cheeks, Harry felt that furious numbness rise through him like it had never left. He wasn’t – he _couldn’t_ stand by while someone innocent was hurt. He would _never_ become the people that had failed him. He’d see his own blood darken stone before someone else’s.

The older students must have seen something in his face, because they dropped their smirks as one. Harry saw a disturbingly satisfied glint in the blonde boy’s eyes. Clearly Harry wasn’t the only one itching for a fight. “Ruth,” Harry said, quietly, “get behind me.” The girl cast him a wide-eyed look before she skittered somewhere out of his peripheral vision. The Prefect was smirking lazily at the display. “Aright, Potter. Don’t say we didn’t warn you,” she said, falling back slightly into a loose duelling stance.

Harry felt his fingers finally brush the wooden grip of his wand, and at the same time saw the two older students whip theirs out in one fluid moment, so fast it was almost imperceptible. Harry’s wand rose and a spell formed on his lips, but he knew he’d never be fast enough. Red was glowing from the tip of the girl’s wand and he was so, so, fucked. “Exp-!”

“What on earth is going on here?” a voice cried from behind him, and the world rushed back into focus.

Blinking rapidly as the adrenaline coursed through his body with nowhere to go, Harry saw the wands of the older students disappear back into their pockets as if they’d been there all along. The older student’s faces shifted immediately into placid expressions, but Harry didn’t miss the flash of pure rage that overtook the boy’s face for a moment, before it was replaced by a lazy smirk. Whirling around, Harry came face to face with – another student.

The boy was tall and broad, and his currently thunderous face was strikingly handsome. A Hufflepuff, he looked to be in his sixth or seventh year, and Harry spotted a Prefect’s badge on his lapel. His eyes were jumping from the trio of scared-looking firsties (Harry saw his eyes flash dangerously at the sight of Ruth and felt the first flutter of relief breaking through his rage) to the older students, and finally to Harry, who realised after a moment that he still had his wand pointed foolishly at the pair.

“There’s nothing going on here, Diggory,” the girl said, smoothly. “We were just having a chat with the baby snakes when Potter came along, waving his wand around like a foolish little Gryffindor.”

Harry felt his face flush as Diggory’s eyes trained on him again. He shoved his wand into his pocket roughly and tried, unsuccessfully, to school his expression into something less murderous.

“Right,” said Diggory after a moment. “And why is this first year bleeding from her nose?” His tone was calm, but Harry heard something hard underneath.

“Oh,” the boy took over now, easily. “She was bleeding when we arrived. We were just asking what happened when Potter arrived, wand blazing, sticking his nose in our business and making assumptions.” The boy shook his head, as if disappointed, and Harry was so angry his stomach hurt from it. The boy wasn’t even pretending to sound sincere – he still had the edge of a smirk around his mouth!

Diggory, thank Merlin, didn’t seem to buy it either. He turned to the first years, who Harry now saw were huddled together by the wall, looking utterly miserable. Ruth’s nose was still dribbling blood slowly, but her fear seemed to have melted away to be replaced by a look of anger so strong it might have been comical, under different circumstances. Corwin and Astoria each had hold of one of her hands, bracketing her like tiny bodyguards.

“Is that what happened?” Diggory asked them, voice now gentle. Harry waited for them to burst into speech, but when the silence stretched on a few moments, he turned back to look at them, confused. Only Ruth met his eyes – with a desperate, pleading look. Astoria and Corwin were staring at the ground, the boy shockingly pale under his red hair and the girl now clearly trying to hold back tears. Ruth opened her mouth as if to say something, but Harry saw, with a sinking feeling, that the other two were now squeezing her hands so tightly that they’d gone pale. Her mouth closed with a click of her teeth, and she closed her eyes tight. She nodded, once.

Harry could feel a flush creep up his neck. “Ruth,” Harry tried, but the girl just shrugged, avoiding his eyes.

“Well,” said the older boy slowly, smirking outright now. “There you have it. Potter was sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong.” His eyes were trained on Harry’s face, soaking up his rage with obvious enjoyment.

“That’s enough, Rowle.” Diggory said, sharply. He had a defeated cast to his face, but he stepped forward to face the pair, on level with Harry. “You have rounds to complete,” he said pointedly, eyeing the girl coldly. She smiled at him in response, and Harry tried to smother a shiver at how empty the gesture was on her face. Without another word, she turned to leave. The boy’s eyes trailed over Harry and the others slowly, with relish. “Until next time, Potter, firsties,” he said, before turning to follow her.

When the pair disappeared around the corner, Harry swung on the first years with a scowl. His hands were shaking, he noted in the back of his brain, as he tried to push down on his anger enough to speak. He opened his mouth – to say what, he didn’t know – but froze when he saw their faces. Astoria and Corwin were both crying, the former pale as parchment and the boy blotchy with tears. Harry felt his anger die in his throat. Ruth was staring at the ground with a look of abject misery mixed with rage; Harry could emphasise.

He was saved from speaking by the appearance of Diggory at his shoulder. The tall boy sunk gently to one knee a few feet from the first years, heedless of the spot of blood Harry could now see soaking into the edge of his robe. “Hi, there,” he said to the top of Ruth’s curly, bowed head. “Are you alright? That looks painful.”

His voice was smooth and calm, and Harry found some of his residual anxiety ebbing away.

The girl nodded jerkily without looking up. A hiccup caught Harry’s attention, and before he knew what was happening, his arms were full of a sobbing Astoria.

“Ha-Harry,” the girl cried, “please don’t be mad at us. We d-didn’t know what to do.” Harry, who was standing frozen as the small girl clutched at his middle, felt another impact from his side as Corwin wasted no time in flinging himself haphazardly against Harry’s side, his gangly arms around them both. He could see Diggory giving him a pointed look over the two heads attached to him. Hesitantly, Harry lifted his arms to gingerly pat at the first years’ backs.

“Er, I’m not mad,” he said, and realised it was true. “I’m just – a little confused?” Astoria let out another little hiccup, and Harry resumed patting her back with only an internal grimace. Merlin. He’d just wanted to go for a walk.

“It’s my fault,” came a muffled voice from behind them. The two first years detangled themselves from Harry (he tried to mask his relief) to peer around at Ruth, who was watching them from under her eyelashes, eyes red and expression severe. Her left hand was clenched tightly in her robes.

Diggory stepped in once again. “I doubt that,” he said, gently, but the girl only turned her glare on him. They stared at each other silently for a few moments, before Diggory sighed, and ducked his head. “I can’t do anything unless you’re willing to talk to a teacher, no matter what you say now,” he told her, voice a little sad. “I know what the Rowle twins are like. I don’t blame you.”

Harry swept his eyes between Ruth and Diggory bemusedly. “What are you talking about?” Astoria shot him another guilty look. Corwin was looking at the ground, red creeping up his neck, and looking utterly miserable. On a bizarre impulse, Harry reached out to pat him gently on the shoulder. The boy started, before turning a watery smile on Harry in gratitude. Turning back to the others before the boy could think of hugging him again, Harry looked between Ruth and Diggory, waiting.

“If they heard us grassing on them to a Prefect, they’d never leave us alone. They have loads of powerful friends, and I can’t - I’m sorry, Harry.” Ruth was looking at him beseechingly, dark hair falling messily out of her ponytail. Her tawny skin was still flushed, and the blood was beginning to dry on her chin. She was trembling slightly, and Harry could see that her mouth was pursed, as if she was in pain.

Harry felt the last of his anger disappear as he absorbed her words. “I… you can’t just let them get away with that,” he found himself saying, and regretted it instantly.

Ruth’s eyes flashed, and even Astoria shot him a displeased look, before saying, “We’re not _letting_ them do anything, Harry. But they’re bigger than us, and they know magic we don’t, and, and, what else can we _do_?” With horror, Harry saw that her eyes were filling with tears again.

“You’re right, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that,” Harry said, and sighed. “It’s just… Shit. They’re awful. Why were they going after you lot?”

All three first years flinched when he swore, and Harry felt his lips twitch, but smothered the impulse to smile. It definitely wasn’t the time.

Ruth’s glare was back. “They found out I was Muggle-born,” she said, voice low. Harry tried to hide his confusion, but Ruth continued without prompting. “Turns out there’s a small Pureblood family named McNess, and apparently everyone just assumed I was one of them. They didn’t take it well when they discovered differently. Apparently, you don’t _get_ Muggleborns in Slytherin.”

Harry couldn’t stand the bitterness he could hear in the girl’s voice. She reminded him, in that moment, of Ginny talking about the diary that night in the Common Room. Stronger than she should by rights be and resigned to the necessity. Harry hated it.

“Those –” he began, but Diggory interrupted, and Harry started. For a moment he had forgot the other boy was there.

“Right,” the Hufflepuff said, decisively. “Even if you’re not going to report this, I still have to escort you to the Hospital Wing. Your nose’ll need looked at, and likely that wrist you’re trying to hide, too.”

Ruth let go of her wrist, guiltily.

Diggory continued calmly. “It’s policy that if a Prefect finds an injured student, they have to report it to the student’s Head of House afterwards. No exceptions,” Diggory added, after all three of the first year’s mouths opened to argue. Harry couldn’t blame them. Snape was the last person he’d want to see while injured

The three first years shot each other looks, and began miserably shuffling towards Diggory.

“Er, Diggory?” Harry asked, cursing how uncertain his voice came out.

The older boy turned to him with an open expression.

Harry floundered for a second. “I just – can I, uh, come with? To the Hospital Wing, I mean? I just…” he trailed off and shrugged. His mind kept replaying the sight of Ruth’s blood across the stone, and the look of relief the first years had shot him when he appeared. He was seized by the urge to see them safely into Madame Pomphrey’s care.

Thankfully, Diggory seemed to understand. “Of course,” the boy said, gesturing ahead of him. “And you can call me Cedric. No need for surnames.” The boy smiled at him, lopsided, and Harry felt his steps falter briefly. It was more than a little disarming to have the full force of D- Cedric’s smile aimed at him. He ducked his head and fell into step with the older boy.

After a moment, Harry realised Cedric was waiting for a reply, and mumbled, “Er, alright. You can, you know, call me Harry, if you’d like.”

Cedric smiled again out the corner of his eye. Harry got the impression that his face was rather more suited to smiling than all the frowning he had been doing earlier. It definitely suited his face better.

“It’s a good job you came along when you did, Harry,” the boy said in a low voice, eying the small trio shuffling several feet ahead of them, heads bent together and whispering furiously.

Harry shrugged, avoiding Cedric’s eyes. “I don’t think I helped at all, really. I wouldn’t have been able to beat them in a duel, and it would’ve just made things worse for them, probably. You’re the one who stopped them.” It was painful to admit it, but Harry knew the Rowles would have wiped the floor with him if they’d had the chance to duel. If anything, _Harry_ was lucky Cedric arrived when he did.

The older boy frowned down at him. “Don’t sell yourself short, Harry. You could easily have walked away to save your own skin, and it clearly meant a lot to them that you tried to help.” He nodded to the trio ahead.

Harry shrugged again, feeling suddenly uncomfortable under the boy’s gaze. He racked his brain for another topic to bring up and found one quickly. “How come you’re not in Hogsmeade with everyone else?” he asked. He hadn’t really expected any students above third year to still be in the castle.

Cedric accepted the subject change graciously. He smiled down at Harry ruefully. “Prefects take it in turns to stay behind when the rest of the school goes. I pulled the short straw and got the first visit.”

Cedric’s mention of Prefects reminded Harry of something else that was bothering him.

“That girl,” he said, “Rowle? Is she a Prefect, too? I saw her badge.”

Cedric sighed. “I’m afraid she is. Most Prefects take their responsibilities seriously, but unfortunately some selections aren’t the best. Our year is a little light on students, and Rowle has at least always kept her nose clean in class. She doesn’t usually target students like this. That’s usually left for her brother.” Cedric’s look of disdain was pointed. He clearly had nothing nice to say about the Rowle boy. Harry agreed wholeheartedly.

“How did you end up friends with three Slytherin First-years, anyway?” Cedric asked after a moment. “They seem rather fond of you.”

Harry’s shoulders bunched as he remembered the two firsties flinging themselves at him. “It’s… complicated,” he murmured, eventually. Thankfully, Cedric let it be.

They were soon approaching the Hospital Wing. “Are you really going to tell Snape?” Harry asked before they arrived.

Cedric shrugged ruefully. “I have to. Maybe I can’t get proper justice, but at least he’ll be aware that it’s happening.”

Harry nodded, though privately he wondered if Snape would even really care. “Won’t they ask questions, though?” Harry asked.

Cedric smirked. “You clearly haven’t spent enough time around Slytherins, yet. They’ll come up with something.”

They had reached the large wooden doors to the Hospital Wing. The trio of First years preceded them in, and Harry head Madam Pomphrey bustle over to them with her usual no-nonsense questions.

Harry was just in time to witness Astoria begin her performance.

“It was the stairs, Madame Pomphrey,” the girl began in a wobbling voice, “we were walking back to our dorms and we were distracted, and we didn’t see the stairs move from under us! I w-was going to fall, but Ruth grabbed me to pull me back and then _she_ fell instead! It was awful! Her nose is bleeding, and I think her wrist might be _broken_. Oh, Madame Pomphrey, will she be alright?” Astoria was crying again, and Harry stood watching, gobsmacked. He heard a muffled snort and turned to see Cedric trying to supress a smirk. Harry blinked, and turned back to the scene. Pomphrey was comforting a still upset Astoria while directing Ruth towards the nearest bed. The Matron cast a quick glance over the boys by the door before heading back into her office.

As soon as she was out of sight, Astoria’s crying stuttered out with a few sniffs. Harry cast her a bewildered look, and the small girl smiled deviously up at him from where she was wiping her eyes.

Harry shook his head, and turned back to Cedric. “Are you going to get Snape now?” he asked. Harry had no intention of being here when the Professor arrived.

Cedric’s smile was tight, and his eyes were trained over Harry’s shoulder. “Looks like I have no need.”

Harry whirled round in time to see Snape exiting the Matron’s office, sweeping absently at some soot from his robes. A Floo network, he realised after a second. Well, shit.

Sure enough, Snape’s eyes immediately landed on Harry.

“Potter,” the man’s lips curled. “Have you resorted to pushing first years down the stairs, now? Venting your frustrations at being denied permission to visit Hogsmeade, are you?” His tone was acerbic.

To Harry’s utter shock, it was a still petrified-looking Corwin who jumped to his defence. “No, sir!” the boy squeaked. “Harry and P-prefect Diggory found us and helped us!”

Snape blinked at the boy slowly, but Corwin didn’t back down. Astoria and Ruth shared a look, before turning to the man. “It’s true, Professor,” Ruth said, while Astoria nodded. “We were panicking, and Harry and Diggory helped get us sorted and brought us down here.”

Snape’s eyes trained on Harry again, and the man’s frown could cut glass. Harry didn’t have to be a mind-reader to know that the man saw through them, but there was clearly nothing he could do. Not with witnesses, anyway.

“I see,” he said at last, through gritted teeth.

Corwin, who seemed not to know when he’d already won, piped up again. “Yeah, Harry’s our friend!” the boy said, shooting Harry another watery smile.

Harry might have laughed at the look on Snape’s face, if he was inclined to be turned into Potions ingredients in the near future. Instead, he attempted to look earnest, and nodded quickly.

“ _Friends_ …” the man said after a long moment, in the tone that most people would say ‘child-murderer’.

Possibly having mercy on Harry, Pomphrey chose this moment to interrupt. “ I’ll need some privacy to check on my patient, please.” Sweeping them all with a look, she continued, “If you don’t mind. I’m sure Miss McNess will be able to join you shortly. Mister Diggory, if you don’t mind staying to escort Miss McNess when we’re done, the rest of you can wait outside or back in your dorms.”

Cedric mumbled his assent, and Pomphrey ushered the rest of them (sans Snape) with a pointed look, turning her eyes on Harry expectantly. With a jolt, Harry realised she expected him to corral the younger ones. “Er, right,” he said, nodding to the remaining First-years. “Come on, guys. Let’s wait for Ruth… elsewhere.”

Astoria looked like she might protest, but one look from Snape had her nodding hurriedly and mumbling her goodbyes to Ruth. She and Corwin hastily made their way over to Harry, and with one last look back, the trio departed the Hospital Wing.

They walked in silence for a few moments, before Astoria let out an unhappy sounding sigh. “That was awful,” she said.

Corwin was wringing his hands. “Do you think they believed us?”

After a pause, Harry realised he was aiming this question at him.

“Er, probably,” he said. “Well, maybe not Snape, but he won’t be able to prove it. And he probably doesn’t trust anything, so it’s not a reflection on you guys.”

Corwin seemed to relax minutely. “Yeah,” he mumbled.

Harry made an effort to lighten the mood. “That was impressive, back there. The story you came up with? You were very believable.”

It was Astoria’s turn to blush. “Thanks,” she mumbled, unusually shy. “Daphne taught me. Our mum and dad are pretty strict, so we had to get good at lying or we’d always be in trouble.”

Harry wasn’t sure that checked out, but what did he know about parents, or siblings for that matter?

“Well,” he said, after a moment. “Good job, anyway.” He tried to ignore how surreal it felt to be congratulating a first year on lying, but he supposed he was hardly a good example.

They both beamed at him, and Harry felt himself smiling back reflexively. Without meaning to, Harry realised he’d led them to the Library. God, Hermione and Nott were rubbing off on him. Well – might as well wait here, as anywhere.

Harry led them in and found himself automatically looking round to what he’d subconsciously deemed the ‘Slytherin Corner’, before remembering that everyone was away in Hogsmeade.

Before he could get maudlin all over again, another voice piped up. “Hey, Harry!” He turned, and saw Ginny Weasley waving happily from a desk she shared with – Merlin help him – Colin Creevey.

Holding in a sigh, Harry turned to the two First-years, who looked between him and the second years apprehensively. “You can come with, if you’d like. You’ll like Ginny and Colin, they’re very, er - friendly.”

The pair seemed to communicate silently, before Astoria nodded with a tight smile. Trailing behind him, they followed him over to where Ginny and Colin were waiting.

“Hiya, Harry!” Colin said brightly as he reached them. “Want to sit with us? We’re just doing some homework,”

Ginny was looking between him and the Slytherins, openly curious.

“Sure, Colin,” Harry said, trying hard to sound enthusiastic.

Feeling rather ridiculous, Harry gestured loosely between the two pairs. “This is Astoria Greengrass and Corwin Clearwater. And, er, this is Ginny Weasley and Colin Creevey.”

Ginny had been watching him closely as he introduced them, and Harry tried to send her a pleading look with his eyes. She must have understood, for she turned a happy, if forced, smile onto the two first years, and nodded to the spare seats around the table.

Once they were all seated, a thoroughly awkward silence descended on the table.

“So…” Harry started, when it began to get unbearable, “what kind of homework are you doing?”

Harry felt an unprecedented rush of gratitude towards Colin as the younger boy happily took up the mantle and began rambling enthusiastically about their Charms essay. The two first years watched with wide eyes for a few minutes as the trio talked around them, before they gradually began to relax.

When Corwin piped up nervously about something they had covered in class, Harry felt something in him unclench. Colin beamed at the boy happily, and Harry tried not to think about the ramifications of introducing the two most thoroughly enthusiastic people he’d ever met. Ginny caught his eye at one point, and Harry tried to convey his gratitude in his smile. Her returning smile was still curious, but genuine. When Astoria began contributing to the conversation, Harry let himself sit back fully, and tried to put the day’s events to the back of his mind.

*

The Great Hall that night was abuzz with tension and nervous excitement. Although the Professors had called for lights out ten minutes ago, there was still a persistent undercurrent of whispers all around him. Harry was lying in his conjured sleeping bag with Hermione and Ron flanking him on either side

The evening had gone smoothly, compared to the events of the afternoon. Ron and Hermione had arrived back at the castle windswept and flushed, and absolutely laden with sweets. Harry found even his jealousy took a backseat faced with proof that Ron and Hermione had been thinking of him during their outing. They had tried to control themselves with the sweets so as not to spoil the feast, but even Hermione found her reserves waning eventually.

The meal had been as spectacular as they’d expected. Giant pumpkins littered the room, and the food was so delicious that even Harry found himself eating until he felt he might burst. They were chatting aimlessly about Hogsmeade and their classes, until Dean began launching into a tale about how he’d narrowly avoided a hag in Hogsmeade who had tried to make him her supper, with interjections from Seamus who was insisting with increasing volume that it was _him_ the hag was after. Once everyone around them at the table was thoroughly engrossed in the argument, Harry leant towards his friends and regaled them with the events of the day. Hermione and Ron were both pale by the end of the story. Harry had felt himself grow a little queasy as he described the blood, but he felt it would be unfair to Ruth to downplay things. They worried over the events together, but none of them could think of what to do to help. Hermione had half-heartedly suggested going to a Professor, but even Ron agreed that if the firsties weren’t willing to talk, there wasn’t much that could be done. And Harry was still conflicted. On one hand, he wanted to ensure the Rowles couldn’t bother anyone else; but he knew first-hand, from witnessing Dudley bully half the school as a child, that teachers could be pretty useless when it came to these things, and often telling the teacher _did_ lead to things getting worse. Dudley might lay off a particular child during school hours, but it only meant that they’d get it worse outside of school, where there were no teachers to go to for help. Harry simply hated the idea of Ruth and the others going back to Slytherin, where there might be no one to stand between them and the Rowles of the House.

Harry had been peeking unsubtly at the Slytherin table all throughout the feast. The first year Slytherins were present (as were the third year Slytherins, but Harry was trying not to look at them too often), but they seemed rather subdued. Ruth was eating with her right hand and didn’t seem to be in any pain (and there was no trace of blood, Harry noted with a shiver), but Harry couldn’t help but flit his eyes over to them every so often. It was hard to avoid the feeling that if he wasn’t watching, something might happen.

By the end of the feast, conversation had dwindled and the atmosphere became comfortably dozy. They chattered happily amongst themselves on the way back to the tower, walking sluggishly behind Lavender and Parvati, who seemed to have endless reserves of energy and were arguing happily over the best shop in Hogsmeade. The good cheer vanished by the time they arrived at the entrance to the tower and found the Fat Lady’s portrait had been slashed by none other than Sirius Black during the feast.

On the floor of the Hall, Harry huddled near his friends as they argued back and forth on how Black had entered the castle without alerting the Dementors. Harry was only half paying attention. It wasn’t that he was unconcerned – far from it; the idea that Black had been so close to them – that if it had been any other night than Halloween he likely would have come face-to-face with the man – made him shiver, and kept him checking over his shoulder every few minutes for anything happening. The threat of Black had become all too real, and Harry wondered whether the teachers might put more restrictions in place in light of the attempted attack.

Harry kept finding himself glancing around the Hall every so often, though being unable to see more than ten feet in any direction, he wasn’t sure who he was looking for.

As they’d arranged their sleeping bags, his Gryffindor year-mates had, rather unsubtly, arranged their sleeping bags in a loose circle around him. Harry had pretended not to notice the shuffling, but he’d had to swallow several times to clear his throat after. Ron and Hermione had seemed to reach a stale-mate in their argument, and all was quiet around them for a few minutes, as Harry began to feel himself begin to doze off.

He was brought back to wakefulness sharply by the quiet clip of shoes on stone. He could hear voices nearby, and they sounded like they were discussing Black. Harry strained to hear over the sounds of rustling and faint snoring around him.

Harry would recognise Snape’s silky tones anywhere. “You remember the conversation we had, Headmaster, just before — ah — the start of term?” The man was speaking quietly, and Harry tried to strain his eyes in the dark to see him without moving his head, but it was no use.

“I do, Severus,” Harry heard Dumbledore respond, and the man’s voice was uncharacteristically hard.

“It seems — almost impossible — that Black could have entered the school without inside help. I did express my concerns when you appointed —”

“I do not believe a single person inside this castle would have helped Black enter it,” said Dumbledore, and now there was no hiding the remonstration in his voice. The topic was closed. “I must go down to the Dementors,” he continued. “I said I would inform them when our search was complete.”

“Didn’t they want to help, sir?” asked, of all people, Percy Weasley.

“Oh, yes,” Dumbledore replied, and Harry felt himself shiver at the coldness in the man’s voice. “But I’m afraid no Dementor will cross the threshold of this castle while I am Headmaster.” Harry heard footsteps and closed his eyes quickly when the unmistakeable profile of Snape glided into his view. The footsteps stopped nearby. Harry waited, holding his breath for a long moment, until he heard the footsteps pick back up as the man left the Hall. His eyes shot open. What was that about?

Harry had no time to ponder Snape’s odd actions, as an odd noise quickly made itself known to him. Whipping his head around, Harry blinked as he saw someone attempting to shuffle near to him across the floor in their sleeping bag. The moon appeared from behind a cloud, casting just enough light that Harry could see the unmistakable visage of-

“Zabini?” he whispered, baffled.

The boy smiled at him cheerfully as he finally shuffled within a few feet and collapsed.

“Hey, Potter,” Zabini said in a whisper. Harry quickly scanned around him, but no one seemed to be paying them any attention. Ron and Hermione must have finally fallen asleep. “I’m the most personable, or something, so I’ve been sent to check you’re not dead or dying, and then report back. We heard something about the Gryffindor portrait being set on fire, or Sirius Black blowing a hole in the wall to the common room, so I’ve been sent to make sure you’ve not been exploded or grievously injured. So - you’re okay? Haven’t been murdered by Black, or anything?”

The boy watched him expectantly, as if genuinely wondering.

“Er,” Harry managed after a moment, blinking slowly. “Nope, not murdered. Or, ah, dying. I’m fine. Who – who sent you, sorry?”

They both froze briefly as a prefect swept by – bloody Percy Weasley – and once he had passed, Zabini grinned. “Just us. Well - there are ears everywhere, apparently, so when they heard I was going to check on you we were jumped by some adorably threatening first years – honestly, Potter, are you collecting Slytherins now? – but I was heading over anyway. Theo’s all frowny, and we’d like to get some sleep tonight, so, y’know.”

Harry felt himself flush, for several reasons, and thanked both Merlin and God that it was dark in the Hall. He had no idea where to start. “W- I, uh. Shit. Sorry about the firsties. We, uh, had a bit of a day. What do you mean, that Th- Nott’s all ‘frowny’?”

Zabini gave him a considering look. “We can handle firsties, don’t worry. And I meant what I said. Theo gets all frowny when he’s worried about something. Normally it’s funny, but when there’s a mass murderer on the loose, I suppose it’s a bit more serious.”

Harry just blinked back at the other boy, but Zabini seemed to take it in stride.

“Right,” Harry managed after a moment of Zabini watching him patiently. “Well, thanks for checking up on me. Black just slashed at the portrait when she wouldn’t let him in. No explosions, unfortunately. So, I’m, er, fine, thanks.”

Zabini just smiled again. Harry wondered, absently, if he should introduce him to Cedric Diggory. Between them they could probably power all the lights in the Dursley’s house with just their smiles.

“I’ll make sure to report back that you’re ‘er, fine, thanks,’” Zabini gave a little mock salute, and Harry felt a laugh burst out of him unintentionally. They both immediately ducked down and waited, but thankfully Percy didn’t descend upon them.

“Aren’t you tired?” Harry asked after a moment, when the boy showed no signs of leaving. He seemed awfully wide-awake for the hour, and his eyes were very bright.

“Oh, I’m a bit of a night owl,” the other boy responded. “I’ll probably be up for bit yet. That’s why they sent me, probably. If Millicent doesn’t get her full nine hours she’s hellish the next day. It’s very funny, but I think Theo and Tracey would actually kill me if I subjected them to that, so here I am.”

Zabini had a bizarre way of talking that made you feel as if you were in on some sort of joke, punchline somewhere in the distance. He had a sort of confidence that Harry hadn’t ever seen on anyone else before. He found himself grinning at the boy, who returned his smile easily.

“Well,” Harry said. “I don’t think I’ll sleep soon, either, so feel free to stay here for a bit if you want company.” He tried to shrug nonchalantly, before realising Zabini might not be able to tell in the dark.

They chattered for a while further – largely, and Harry suspected, typically for the boy – about their impending History essay, and everything wrong with Binns’ approach to the topic. Harry was happy to lie back and listen. Zabini’s rants were bizarrely entertaining, even given in halting whispers and even if Harry barely knew what he was talking about. Soon though, Harry found himself drifting off, and with a quiet “Night, Potter!” Zabini made his way as stealthily as possible – which wasn’t very much, ensconced in a bright purple sleeping bag – back across the Hall. Watching the boy attempt to shuffle over across the hall, avoiding trampling on sleeping students, Harry found himself smiling as he turned towards a snoring Ron and settled in for the night.

*

The next week passed in a blur of studying and Quidditch practice. Now that November had arrived, the first Quidditch match of the year was on the horizon, and Gryffindor were scheduled first against Slytherin. When Harry resurfaced from his anxieties over the impending match, all anyone seemed to be talking about was Black. McGonagall had had a ‘chat’ with him the day after Halloween, just to let him know that they hadn’t found any trace of the man, but were all on guard, and Harry was to be extra careful going forward, etc, but Harry honestly hadn’t spared the man much thought. Wood had become fanatical, which was saying something. It was his last year at Hogwarts, and Harry was genuinely worried that Wood would die of heartbreak if they didn’t manage to win the cup.

As the end of the week approached, the weather became worse and worse, and Harry’s worry grew.

“Relax, mate,” Ron told him one evening after catching him staring worriedly at the rain out the window. “You’ll beat Slytherin no bother. The wind’s hardly going to sweep _you_ off of your broom.”

Harry was unconvinced. The morning before the match, Harry’s bad feeling was proven justified.

“What do you mean we’re not playing Slytherin?” Fred demanded, standing.

Oliver was slumped on one of the benches in the changing room, head against the wall.

“Apparently their seeker, Malfoy, is ill. They’re claiming he’s come down with the Flu again, so we’ll be playing Hufflepuff instead.” Oliver’s voice was utterly morose.

“That’s bullshit!” Harry cried. “There’s nothing wrong with Malfoy, they just don’t want to play in this weather.” Now that Oliver mentioned it, Harry realised that Malfoy hadn’t been in class today. Harry had been quite happy with this fact at the time, but now anger roiled through him.

“Well, we know that, but it’s not like we can prove it, can we? It’s Hufflepuff we’re playing, and they’re going to wipe the _floor_ with us.”

As the other jumped in to try and cheer Wood up, Harry found himself scowling down at his lap. That pointy little bastard. It was just like him to try and weasel his way out of losing. That conniving, devious-

“You alright, Harry?” It was Angelina, standing over him with a frown.

Harry sighed, and tried to calm down. “Yeah,” he said. “Just – unfair, is all.”

Angelina hummed agreement and sat next to him on the bench. “I know, but nothing we can do about it now. We’ve still got a great team, and I know we can defeat the ‘Puffs.” Her smile was infectious, and Harry found himself smiling back.

The others were apparently still arguing about their chances.

“But they’ve got a new Captain and Seeker, Cedric Diggory-”

Oliver was interrupted by Alicia and Katie giggling loudly, just as Harry gave a start at the name. Oh. He’d likely played Cedric before, without realising.

Fred and George turned identical looks of scorn on the two girls. “Honestly,” George said, “He’s not _that_ good-looking.”

Alicia laughed, delightedly. “Oh, jealous, are you?”

George spluttered exaggeratedly, and Fred came to his brother’s defence. “What he makes up for in looks, he loses in brains. Honestly, I-”

Harry found himself interrupting with a frown. “Hey, Cedric’s really nice, actually.”

Everyone (sans Wood, who was still staring miserably into the distance) turned to look at him. Angelina, for some reason, was giving him a strangely contemplative look, while the twins looked thoroughly betrayed.

“Harry!” Fred cried. “You haven’t fallen under Diggory’s charms too, have you? We’ll never forgive you.” George clutched at his chest, and Harry felt his face heat horribly.

“Wh- no!” he spluttered. “He just – he helped me out once, is all. I’m not – _charmed_. Merlin.” He could tell he was overreacting, but it was suddenly important to him that the twins know he wasn’t – charmed, or whatever, by Cedric. He was just a nice bloke. George and Angelina were both frowning at him now, but the others just laughed, and to Harry’s relief, the conversation soon turned to strategy.

The morning of the game dawned dark and stormy. Harry could barely stomach his toast, but Hermione was always insistent he eat on the morning of matches. The day had gone downhill after Oliver’s announcement. They had shown up to Defence late, only to find Snape was covering for an apparently ill Professor Lupin. Harry was instantly concerned. He knew the man’s health was poor, but surely nothing major had happened? His worry was almost enough to mask his ensuing rage as Snape spent the class berating them for not knowing things they hadn’t covered, taking points for anything he could think of, and even calling Hermione an ‘insufferable know-it-all’, causing her to almost start crying in class. Harry still burned with rage when he pictured her eyes welling up with tears, and Ron clearly felt the same, as he’d immediately earned a detention by shouting at Snape in her defence.

All-in-all, Harry was in rather a rotten mood during breakfast. The table was full of its usual excitement on match mornings, though Harry could sense a little more unease than usual, as students kept eyeing the storm clouds outside with trepidation. Harry’s year-mates were trying their hardest to cheer him up, but Harry couldn’t shake his worry.

“Want me to paint your nails Gryffindor gold and red?” Parvati offered at one point while buttering her toast. Harry blinked at her, before he felt his shoulders rise defensively as he cleared his throat. Why had she offered him that? She’d never offered to paint the nails of any of the other boys.

Ron gaped at her before Harry could respond. “Wh- of course he doesn’t! Honestly, Parvati. He’s not a bloody girl.”

Parvati gave him a withering look, which Lavender mirrored a moment later. Even Hermione was frowning at Ron. Neville looked nervously around at them all before taking a long sip from his goblet. The atmosphere was suddenly very chilly.

“What?” Ron demanded.

Harry found it rather hard to meet his eyes, suddenly. “Er, that’s alright, Parvati. Thanks anyway, though.”

Parvati just sniffed, though she seemed less icy than the moment before. “Any time, Harry,” she said, giving Ron a pointed look.

“Honestly,” muttered both Ron and Hermione at the same time, which started them up bickering for the rest of breakfast. Harry shared a commiserating look with Neville, who also seemed not to be eating.

“Nervous, Harry?” the boy asked, fiddling with a piece of toast.

Harry shrugged, and tried to muster up a smile for his shy friend. “A bit, I suppose. The weather’s pretty awful, and we’re not really prepared to play Hufflepuff.”

Neville nodded sympathetically. “Yeah, I h-heard about that. I’m sure it’ll go fine, though. You’re the best Seeker we’ve ever had, everyone says so. You’ll do g-great.”

He said it so simply that Harry found himself smiling genuinely for the first time since the morning before. “Thanks, Neville,” he said, as the other boy returned his smile shyly.

Soon enough, it was time to embark. The team met for their pre-game pep talk, but Wood seemed rather unable to speak. He was looking a disturbingly pale shade of green. Instead they milled around, warming up, until it was game time. As they walked out onto the field, Harry tried desperately to scan the stands for Ron and Hermione, but the rain was too thick to see or even hear the students. As they mounted their brooms, Harry sent a quick plea to the heavens that the wind wouldn’t blow him away, and then they were off.

*

The cold and the rain were dragging his body down like physical weights, slowing him and causing his fingers to numb where they were clenched tightly to his Nimbus. Hermione’s _Impervius_ on his glasses had helped him see a little, but things were still going terribly. His world was limited to ten feet in front of him, and there was no way he’d be able to spot the Snitch unless it flew directly towards him. But no – Wood was shouting at him. Harry could just make him out on the edge of his vision, hair plastered to his face as he waved frantically and pointed behind him. Harry spun, as fast as his frozen limbs would allow, and – there! A flash of gold. Leaning forward jerkily, Harry sped towards it, frozen arms outstretched. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted Cedric, racing towards him and gaining, now. He just had to hold on for a few moments longer – nearly there! – but suddenly, the cold enveloping Harry changed. The howl of the wind in his ears died down from one breath to another, until a thick, horrible silence flooded the pitch. What little light had made it through the clouds seemed to vanish in the space of a blink as Harry swivelled, disorientated, and Harry felt the chill that he’d only felt once, but recognised immediately. _No_ , he thought desperately. _Not now_. But there was no use. Spreading onto the pitch below were what had to be a hundred Dementors, pitch black against the grass and gliding towards him, arms outstretched.

Someone was screaming… but how could they be, when everything was suddenly so loud?

_“Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!”_ a voice cried, pure fear. It was a woman’s voice, and something about it sent frozen horror all through him. Everything was dark around him, and the voice was becoming clearer.

_“Stand aside, you silly girl… stand aside, now…”_

_“Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead —”_

What was happening? That voice… someone was in trouble… he had to help her… and he _knew_ that voice…

_“Not Harry! Please… have mercy… have mercy…”_

_“Have mercy,”_ repeated over and over in his brain as he reached out a hand, trying to find her, but there was only darkness and cold, and the ground approaching fast, far too fast, and suddenly Harry knew no more.

*

The hospital wing was eerie at night. Dark, draughty, and silent, it was one of the places in Hogwarts that truly drove home to Harry that he lived in a castle for most of the year.

It didn’t help matters that he couldn’t sleep. He had awoken that afternoon to the sight of the Gryffindor Quidditch team (plus, of course, Ron and Hermione) gathered round him, faces pale with fear and a misery that sent an immediate jolt through Harry’s stomach. The halting explanation of Dementors, and his fall, and his _broomstick_ , did nothing to help matters. There wasn’t anything wrong with Harry now, physically, but Madame Pomphrey had been white with anger or fear, or perhaps both, when he’d woken up. Hermione had told him, in an underside, that it wasn’t just her. Apparently, most of the adults (Harry automatically excluded Snape) were enraged by the Dementors descending on the pitch. Hermione told him she’d never seen Dumbledore so mad. The fact that he’d fallen nearly a hundred feet only to be saved at the last minute by the headmaster hadn’t quite sunk in.

By the time the matron ushered his friends away, Harry was almost glad for the quiet. He’s lost a Quidditch match, for the first time. More than that, he’d lost his _team_ the match. If he hadn’t fallen, he might’ve caught the Snitch. Wood wouldn’t be stuck crying in the showers and Angelina wouldn’t have squeezed his shoulder with that long, pitying look. What was worse, the whole school had _seen_ him fall and lose them the match. All because some Dementors had appeared. The guilt and embarrassment were almost too much to bear.

Harry had tried to close his eyes, but every time the black was replaced by the sight of the pitch rushing up to meet him, and he ended up just tossing and turning until he had given up on sleep entirely. No matter what, he couldn’t seem to stop his brain from replaying his fall, loop after loop.

One small act of mercy – the hospital wing was currently empty. The matron had vanished somewhere – Harry supposed she had to have her own quarters someplace– by the time it was properly dark, and Harry had been alone, nursing his thoughts, for what felt like an eternity.

He was dragged from another replay of his fall by the almost imperceptible _clip_ of a shoe on stone floor. Immediately zoning in on the heavy wooden doors, Harry snatched his wand from the dresser and curled up, feigning sleep with his eyes opened only to slits. When the door began to silently, glacially creep open, Harry realised he needn’t have bothered; in walked Nott, pyjama-clad but with a heavy set of robes making him blend with the shadows. Nott’s eyes zeroed in on him immediately, and both boys froze for a moment that felt eternal.

Nott was the first to move. Darting a quick glance to the back of the room where Pomphrey’s office lay dark and silent, the boy crept quietly over towards Harry’s bed.

He stopped with his knees nearly touching the end of the frame. Harry realised he was still clutching his wand in a death grip under the covers and jerkily placed it back on the dresser, safely within reach. Nott’s dark eyes tracked the movement unblinkingly. The boy seemed to be waiting for Harry to speak, which seemed remarkably unfair to Harry seeing as he wasn’t the one sneaking around the castle in the middle of the night. That thought, however, reminded him of the last time he’d met Nott out of hours.

“Can’t sleep?” Harry asked, voice croaky. He cleared his throat and sat up a little, taking a sip of water from the glass at his bedside.

The boy finally opened his mouth. “No,” he said, and Harry refrained from rolling his eyes with great difficulty. Instead, he squinted at the boy, noting the dark circles – heavier than usual – under his black eyes. His hair was ruffled, as if he’d been tossing and turning. Nott was drooping; normally so poised, the effect was enough to wring some sympathy from Harry. He nodded jerkily at the lone chair that Pomphrey placed next to each bed vainly, in the spirit of the one-visitor rule, which had been immediately broken. Nott blinked rapidly at the chair before pulling it over and collapsing into it, thankfully remembering to keep his movement quiet.

Nott fell into another silence after sitting, and seemed suddenly to find his lap very interesting. The rain, which hadn’t eased up all day, was still cascading in a steady backing patter which Harry had gotten rather used to, but now found unbearably loud in the silence. Lightning flashed suddenly from nearby, casting the room in an eerie white glow for a split second, and Nott jumped.

This, at least, seemed to jerk the boy into motion. “Are you alright?” His voice was almost too quiet to be heard over the rain.

Harry licked his lips quickly and nodded. “No, uh, no damage.” _To him, at least,_ he thought, remembering his unsalvageable _Nimbus_.

Nott met his eyes for a few seconds before looking sharply away. In the dim light from the moon, Harry thought he saw his lips purse, like he was gritting his teeth.

“For a second,” the boy said, slowly, as if judging every word, “we thought you had died.”

The silence was sharper, this time. Expectant.

“For a second,” Harry said, tone light, “so did I.”

Nott didn’t respond. Another beam of lightning hit, but this time Harry wasn’t sure he even noticed; Nott’s eyes hadn’t left his.

“Did you mean it?” the boy asked, after a moment. His voice was more serious than Harry had ever heard it.

Harry floundered for a moment – mean what? – but Nott must have seen it on his face, for he elaborated.

“That silly speech you made. About wanting to be friends.”

Now it was Harry who couldn’t look away. His mouth was awfully dry.

“It – it wasn’t silly,” he said, at last. “And – yes. Yeah. I meant it.”

The silence stretched longer than ever. Nott didn’t look surprised, and his eyes still held Harry’s unblinkingly, but still – Harry could feel that something had changed.

“Alright,” Nott said, finally relaxing. “Then you really need to do something about those Dementors.” The bastard had the audacity to frown reprovingly at him.

Harry blinked, and his lips twitched, despite – everything. “Prick!” he laughed. It felt like a bubble popping this horrible day. “I’m trying! I talked to Professor Lupin at the start of term, and he said he might be able to help, but that it might take a little while.”

Nott’s frown deepened. “Don’t call me a prick,” he said, mildly. “And how exactly is Lupin going to help you?”

Harry shrugged, and found meeting Nott’s eyes suddenly rather difficult. “Oh. Er. D’you remember how you mentioned that there might be a Charm to repel Dementors? Well, I asked him about it. You were right. It’s called the Patronus Charm. Lupin said he’d teach me it, but that there were things he’d have to set up first.”

Nott was silent, and Harry could feel his eyes on him. Merlin, did they make it a point of making hospital blankets as itchy as possible?

“He’s going to teach you the Patronus Charm?” Nott asked, at length, his tone unreadable.

Harry shrugged, and finally managed to drag his eyes up. “That’s the idea,” he said, simply.

Nott looked thoughtful. “That might work. But what’ll you do in the meantime? Even once he starts teaching you, it’s an advanced spell; it’ll take you some time to master.”

Harry felt the tips of his ears burn at Nott’s easy assumption that he’d be capable of learning it at all; Harry was far less confident.

“Well… I don’t know. D’you think there’s anything I can do, really? I mean, besides just trying to avoid running into another flock of Dementors.”

Nott’s gaze was sharp. “You didn’t run into them – they sought you out. And – I don’t know. I’ve read a little on how Dementors work. They force their victims to re-experience strong negative feelings from their past; or, in more severe cases, their victims are forced to relieve certain traumatic memories.”

Nott may have carried on speaking, but now the rain was the only thing filling Harry’s ears.

_“Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!”_

Because - of course. Of course it was a memory. He’d recognised that voice. He knew he’d recognised that voice. Perhaps, he thought, nausea creeping thickly up his throat, he’d known from hearing the first scream on the train, the first cry: it was…

“Mum,” he whispered, and promptly turned and vomited straight into his bedside bin.

There was a horrible silence once he stopped heaving. Rain pattered against the window, and through his closed eyes, Harry saw another flash of thunder.

Over the sound of the blood rushing in his head, Harry heard a soft whisper of Evanesco, and the sour smell below him disappeared. Harry couldn’t open his eyes.

Harry waited for – anything to happen, but Nott was silent. All Harry could hear was the rain, his heartbeat, and Nott’s soft breathing, forming a slow, steady rhythm as his own breathing calmed down.

There was nothing else for several minutes, as Harry’s breathing slowly evened out, falling, without intention, in sync with the other boy’s.

Then, quiet, and strange: “Do you hear her dying?”

Harry’s eyes flew open, finally. Nott was sitting where he’d been, but if possible, he looked even paler. His hands were clenched on the armrests of his chair, and his eyes were locked on Harry’s with an intensity that was nearly frightening. Harry just – couldn’t believe he’d asked that. He opened his mouth – and closed it.

Nott’s eyes fell to his mouth, and stayed there, for one beat; two. “Because – I do.”

Harry’s mouth was open again. “You – you hear my _mum_ dying?” he asked, strangled.

Nott stared at him for a second, and then his head titled back, and he - laughed. Harry stared. His hair fell off his forehead, and his eyes were closed, and it was over in a second, but Harry felt sure, suddenly, that even if he saw Nott laugh a thousand times more, he’d still remember this time.

Harry felt his face heat as his brain caught up to him. “I – oh.”

There was another silence, and Nott’s smile fell away, slowly.

“Yeah,” said Harry, after a moment, heart pounding in his chest. “I do.”

Harry breathed out, and Nott breathed in.

He found himself speaking. “She begged, when- when he—.” He took a deep breath, and it escaped him in a gust. “I didn’t know that. But she – she wasn’t begging for herself. She was begging him for _me_.” He had to stop, suddenly. His eyes were burning, but he couldn’t even care. Nott was just listening, silent.

“He was going to spare her. He offered, and,” his voice was horribly wet. “And she just kept _begging_. She died for me. Because of me. For _me_.”

The room was loud with his breathing.

“Yes,” said Nott after a moment, quiet, eyes trained somewhere out into the night. “Yes, I suppose she did.”

He said nothing else, and Harry felt whatever was crawling up his chest stop its ascent. They sat together, breathing, for a few minutes more. Harry wanted to ask, suddenly, desperately, what Nott had meant about his mother. But it was clear, wasn’t it? What was there to ask, really? Nott, Harry was certain, suddenly, would tell him when he wanted to. Until then they could sit, and listen to the thunder.

Harry lost track of the time, eventually. His eyes were drifting closed, when Nott finally moved. Harry’s eyes jerked open, but Nott just stood. Harry tried to sit up but could only manage to lean on an elbow. His glasses were perched precariously on his nose, and Nott was a little crooked through their lenses.

The rain had eased, slightly, and the room had taken on an almost bubble-like feeling. As if any loud noise would shatter it all.

Nott was looking at him. Harry focused, and from somewhere within, managed a smile. Nott’s lips moved into something that seemed a little too honest to be a smile, but his voice was warmer than usual when he said, quiet, “Go to sleep, Harry.” There was a touch, there and gone, against his hand which rested on the covers.

Harry blinked slowly, and his head dug into his pillow as he heard the soft shift of the door opening, and closing with a soft thud. He was almost asleep, thoughts foggy, when he processed Nott’s last sentence.

His eyes sprung open. 

Several long moments passed as he stared at the ceiling, before he let his breath out in a sigh, and rolled over to finally get some sleep.

*

During breakfast the next morning, Harry received his second surprise visitor.

“Professor Lupin?” he asked, as the man appeared at the door. His surprise was only partly due to the unexpected visit; Lupin normally looked haggard, but this morning he looked simply dreadful. Huge shadows were under his eyes, and the man’s face was horribly gaunt. If Harry hadn’t seen him four days ago at Dinner, he’d have thought the man in front of him had been bedridden for weeks.

“Hello, Harry,” Professor Lupin said, with a soft smile. He lowered himself gingerly into the seat Nott had occupied the night before. Harry found himself surprisingly ill at ease in the face of the man’s visible unwellness.

“Are you alright, sir?” he asked, sitting up properly.

“Oh, yes, just a little poorly,” Lupin said, dismissively. “I just thought I’d come check in and see how you’re doing. I, ah, heard about what happened, this morning.”

Harry began fiddling with his wand, avoiding Lupin’s strange eyes. _Great_ , he thought. He wouldn’t even be surprised at this point if even the Dursleys had heard about Harry falling off his broom and costing Gryffindor the match.

“Harry,” Lupin said firmly, and his tone caused Harry to look up in surprise. “You’ve nothing to be ashamed of. The dementors stormed the pitch; anyone would react strongly to that.”

“But no one did,” Harry couldn’t help but mutter, “except me.”

“Harry,” Lupin said again, still implacably calm. _He and Nott ought to compare notes_. “I’ve told you before that your response to Dementors is perfectly natural for someone in your position. And, as a matter of fact, several students were admitted to the Hospital Wing while you were unconscious. The only difference was that they weren’t flying one hundred feet in the air at the time.”

Harry blinked at this. He had the bizarre urge to ask which students, but thankfully managed to keep that question inside. “Oh,” he settled on, meekly. He licked his lips. “Professor,” he ventured on after a moment, “I meant to ask – you haven’t, er, had a chance to think any more about teaching me the Patronus Charm, have you?”

Lupin, surprisingly, smiled. “Actually, that was one of the things I came to talk to you about. I’ve managed to procure us a Boggart,” he said this triumphantly, and Harry offered him a weak smile which he hoped wasn’t as bemused as he felt.

He must have failed, for Lupin continued, with a rather fond look. “Sorry, Harry. What I mean is, if you’re right – and I’m sure you are – that your Boggart will turn into a Dementor, we should be able to use that to practice the charm.”

Oh. That was actually very clever. “Are you sure that’ll work, sir?” he couldn’t help but ask.

Lupin nodded and sat back. “I don’t see why not. It should at least reproduce the effects of the Dementor, and I imagine that’s all we’ll need.”

Harry couldn’t fault that. The idea of coming face-to-face with a Dementor again, even one he knew wasn’t real, was already making him feel a bit queasy. Surely that’d be almost as good as the real thing.

There was a companionable silence. Lupin seemed content to let Harry think; or maybe, Harry thought grimly, he was grateful for the rest. The shadows under his eyes were almost as bad as Nott’s had been the night before. He looked as if he could use a few nights of good rest.

Harry knew it was rude to pry, but… “Are you sure you’re alright, sir? I mean… will you be back to class on Monday? We had Snape as cover, and he went off schedule and taught us about werewolves instead.” Harry tried to keep his tone polite, but he knew he’d let some of his resentment slip.

Lupin’s reaction was rather bizarre: the man blinked, heavily, as if startled and if possible, he went a little paler. A moment later, his lips twisted into a strangely rueful smile. “Professor Snape, Harry. And did he, indeed?” he asked, as if nothing had happened.

Merlin, the man was strange about his curriculum. A Ravenclaw in Gryffindor clothing, indeed. He went on, rather musingly, “How was it? Educational?”

“Er,” said Harry, after a moment. “I s’pose so. Honestly, I was a little distracted. He set us an essay on how to identify a werewolf, and it’s due on Monday. Oh Sh- Merlin, that’s tomorrow.” Shit. He hadn’t even thought about it. Where was Hermione when you needed her?

Lupin’s lips twitched severely at his slip, but he straightened his face quickly, and said, bizarrely cheerfully, “Oh? Well, never mind that. I’ll cancel the essay. I haven’t even started you on werewolves, so we’ll save that for later.”

Harry blinked, and tried to smother his grin lest Lupin think him too happy and set him another essay. “Oh? Thanks, sir.” His face fell. “Hermione’s going to be raging.”

Lupin smiled. “Well, I’m sure I can still mark hers, if she’s written it already. That’s only fair.”

Another silence fell, and Harry chewed on his lip. He’d had an idea, that morning, and the thought wouldn’t leave his head; it was surely a sign that Lupin had arrived when he did.

“…Sir?” he asked, fiddling with the edge of his glasses. “D’you think… I mean, you know how you said that there were other students who reacted badly to the Dementors, aside from me?”

Lupin nodded, watching him thoughtfully. “Well, since you’re going to teach me the Patronus, d’you think maybe you could teach someone else, too? With me, I mean?”

Lupin paused. “Do you mean Ron and Hermione?” the man asked, tone light.

“Well, no,” Harry admitted. “They seem fine – or, well, as fine as anyone – with the Dementors. Actually,” he said, his voice studiously casual, “I was thinking, maybe, Theodore Nott?”

Lupin stared at him, then frowned, slowly. Harry rushed in. “I mean, it’s just, we’re, uh, friends now, and – well. I think he’s affected by them, too. And he’s brilliant at Charms, like I said. I just thought…” he trailed off, and rubbed the back of his neck. It had just been an idea, after what Nott – Theodore? Theo? Merlin – had said last night, but now that Harry had given voice to it, the idea made a great deal of sense. If Lupin was going to teach him the Patronus Charm, it was only fair that Nott, who had given Harry the idea in the first place, get to learn, too.

Lupin was still frowning, and Harry felt his stomach sink. The idea was suddenly so appealing that Harry felt an unusual burst of desperation in him that Lupin would agree. “Please, sir,” he said, without conscious thought, and balked a little; he knew exactly what asking an adult ‘please’ got you. But Lupin’s eyes shot to his and held him there for a second.

“Sorry, Harry,” the man said, seeming to come back to himself. Harry felt a surprising wave of disappointment crash over him. “I was only thinking of logistics. Of course, if Mr. Nott wishes to join us, I won’t turn him away.”

Harry blinked. “What - really?”

Lupin’s eyebrows were raised. “Of course. Far be it from me to turn away someone wanting to learn. Have you spoken to him about this?”

Harry shook his head. “Haven’t had the chance. But he’ll say yes,” Harry promised, with a confidence that surprised even him.

The man smiled. “Alright, then. If he agrees, why don’t the two of you come to my office around 7pm on Wednesday? That’ll give me a few days to prepare.”

Harry felt himself grinning but did nothing to curtail it. “Brilliant. Yeah, I mean, we’ll be there.”

Lupin returned his smile, then patted his legs, before standing carefully. “Well then, Harry. I won’t waste any more of your time. I hope you’re feeling better, now, and try to relax. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Harry watched the man turn to go, and blurted, “Thanks, Professor. Uh. For, you know. Thanks a lot.”

Lupin’s smile was gentle. “You’re very welcome, Harry. Now, rest up.”

Harry smiled, and Lupin turned away, and he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello! 
> 
> I've been sooooo excited for Theo and Harry's hospital wing scene. The conversation about their mothers has been rattling around my head since first planning this fic, and I'm so happy to finally see it come to fruition, little as it was. If this fic were to be split in half, this chapter would mark that. Nearly 60 000 words until they admit they're friends; talk about slow burn friendship. Anyway, I am so excited for the rest of this fic! Nott and Harry learning the Patronus together was the idea which really got this fic written in the first place.
> 
> Some of the dialogue from the Great Hall scene was taken from the book; hard to really change that.  
> I hope the gang of OCs aren't too unbearable ! There are few younger characters at this point in canon for me to steal, so I unfortunately have had to make some up for plot purposes. I hope they don't come across as too annoying.
> 
> Also - designating that the official song for this fic is Between two Lungs by Florence and the Machine. my city now. & for anyone who enjoys a playlist to go along with a fic - https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4nrratINsUM7VZLp97DAf5?si=JZAnsrjQSyuiVJwjeKJGHg / spotify:playlist:4nrratINsUM7VZLp97DAf5
> 
> As always, comments make me cry. Until next time! Stay safe


	11. Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dream began like all the worst ones do – with a memory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello !!!!!!  
> First off, apologies for how long this took!
> 
> Full disclosure: all the recent Rowling twitter outbursts have really sapped my energy for writing this. It's been a real task to work out whether I'm okay with continuing to interact with her work in this way. Last thing I want to do is force fic out that I'm not happy with. Thankfully I've had several very kind comments recently, and this Harry just wont leave me alone, so here we are! I don't expect there'll be a big gap between the next few updates. 
> 
> Anyway, onto the fic!
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: The first scene contains explicit bullying between children, and touches on homophobia. Mild violence is implied, but not shown. If anyone doesn't want to read it, skip to the line after the first break, "Harry woke up panting,", and feel free to drop me a comment and i'll give you a summary.

The dream began like all the worst ones do – with a memory. It was cold on the playground – early on in the year Harry had learned he was a wizard, his last term of Primary School. Frost was still thawing under the weak January sun, and all of the children were bundled up in winter coats – all except Harry, who had to make do with one of Dudley’s hand-me-downs, a thin thing which had a large rip from a sledding mishap and was missing several buttons. Harry was, at that moment, hiding – one of his most common pre-Hogwarts activities.

Dudley and his gang terrorized the school rather equally, but they always had their favourite victims. Top of the list was of course Harry, every bully’s favourite target. But sometimes Dudley would get bored with him, or Harry would manage to hide successfully, or would run away, and then Dudley and his gang would move on to whoever was nearest. One of their favourite Harry-substitutes was a small boy in their class named Michael. He was a rather sickly child, youngest in the class, and had wispy blonde hair almost as pale as his face. He always had a note for P.E. from his mum due to his health, much to Dudley’s delight. He was easy pickings, and Dudley took full advantage on days where Harry wasn’t available. Harry had always felt a sense of kinship with the blonde boy. He was only marginally more popular than Harry – he’d seen him playing with some of the younger kids sometimes – and it was hard not to feel like they had something in common, even if it was just their patheticness. He hadn’t really talked to Michael – no one talked to Harry if they could help it – but a few times, over the years, they’d both been the odd ones out when it came to picking partners for things, and they’d ended up having to work together. One school trip, several years before, they’d had to sit next to each other on the bus. Michael had kept nervously glancing back to where Dudley sat up the back, and hadn’t said a word to Harry all day, but Harry found he didn’t mind. When they stopped for lunch, Michael seemed to notice that Harry didn’t have anything – Aunt Petunia had forgot to pack him a sandwich – and to Harry’s utter amazement, and while refusing to look at him while he did it, Michael slid half his sandwich in front of him. Harry hadn’t even known what to do for a moment – Michael carried on eating, only a tell-tale pink on his pale cheeks giving him away – and the sandwich itself was full of some strange salad and bland meat (he remembered vaguely that Michael also had a bucket-full of allergies), but Harry found himself savouring every bite. He couldn’t remember a time when _anyone_ had shared their food with him. Even when his Aunt fed him, there was a sense of reluctance.

That day, Harry had successfully managed to hide round the back of the school, near the bins. It wasn’t the most dignified hiding spot, but the place stunk so much that most students wouldn’t dare get near. Harry’d become rather good at tuning out physical discomfort after years in the Dursley household, so he’d perfected the art of screwing up his nose and making up distractions to wile away the time (and the smell).

On this day, however, he had been halfway through a very satisfying daydream about being one of King Arthur’s knights - a story they had learned about in class - when he’d heard Dudley’s unmistakable laugh carry sharply across the playground. That laugh usually meant pain – his or someone else’s. This was something else Harry had had to get used to: on days he managed to evade Dudley and his gang, he knew that someone else would have to pay the price. The knowledge always settled like lead in his belly, even as he tried to reason it away. Surely he deserved some small respite from Dudley’s bullying? Surely it wasn’t his fault that he was fast, and used to it, and could sometimes slip away? He’d try to convince himself that it wouldn’t be fair if he had to make himself Dudley’s target all the time just to spare everyone else, but the argument always fell flat. Because, in some ways, maybe it was right that Harry bear the brunt of things; Dudley was _his_ cousin, after all. And Harry knew that if he managed to evade him, Dudley would be even angrier with whoever he found instead. There was also the little niggling voice that argued, insidiously, that Harry could take it. He was used to it. He didn’t like getting beat up, or teased, or whatever else the gang had in store: but he was used to it. It didn’t really bother him the way he knew it bothered the other kids who had to take his place. Most of them didn’t know how to take a punch, or how to rile Dudley up so that he skipped straight to the beating and got it over with sooner. Some of them pleaded, or tried to suck up to Dudley, or fought back. Harry knew better, and there was this idea he always got stuck on, that if he just sucked it up and took the brunt of it, then fewer people would suffer.

Sometimes he’d manage to run far enough away that he could pretend that they’d give up, or it would be late, or the weekend, and he knew that Dudley and his friends _would_ give up, and would head to one of their houses to play some new game. But on days like this, listening to the sound of Dudley picking on someone else and knowing that whoever it was was only suffering because Harry had managed to slip away – it was too much for him. 

Peering round the wall out onto the playground, Harry spotted them immediately: Dudley and Piers, standing tall over little Michael who was sprawled on the ground, trying to pull himself up. Harry could see the tell-tale red on his palms from where he must have skinned them. Piers had something in his hands, and was clearly taunting the boy with it, holding it over his head while Dudley laughed like he was watching one of his grislier cartoons.

Harry couldn’t help himself.

He was still ten feet away when he managed to work out what Piers was holding: Michael’s watch, the fancy-looking one he’d brought in that morning to show the class as part of a project. It had been his grandfather’s, who’d died in the war. Harry wouldn’t have been listening all that closely, except that heirlooms, passed on down the generations, always gave him a funny feeling of longing in his stomach. He knew it was probably because he had nothing of his family – his real family, anyway – but that just made him think about his dead parents, so he tried to put it out of his mind.

Piers spotted him the same moment he spotted the watch.

“Oi, Dudley, look who it is,” Piers said, delightedly, that horrible glint of excitement in his beady eyes. Michael’s desperate gaze found his, and Harry swallowed at the pleading look being sent his way. He couldn’t even blame the boy for the hint of relief he saw: everyone knew Harry was Dudley’s favourite punching bag.

Dudley’s head whipped round, and his grin was wolfish. “What do _you_ want, then? Get lost on the way to the loos, did you?” Piers laughed as if this was a terrific joke. Harry didn’t even spare him a glance.

“Leave him alone,” he said, in his most serious voice. Dudley and Piers glanced at each other in surprise, before both boys began snickering. Dudley lifted his chin at Harry, and took a menacing step forward.

“Leave him alone? Oooh, very scary. What are you, then, his _boyfriend_?”

Piers seemed to find this even funnier than Dudley’s last joke. The scrawny boy began guffawing, as Michael on the ground turned an alarming shade of pink. “Nice one, Dud.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but he could feel his ears begin burning. “Shut up, Dudley. What, trying to nick his watch so you can finally learn how to tell time? I’m sure Michael would tell you if you asked him nicely, Diddykins.” Harry knew he was treading on thin ice – and pointlessly, as Dudley would never listen to him – but Michael hadn’t taken his eyes off him, and there was something about the situation that filled him with guilt. At the end of the day Dudley was _his_ cousin, and Michael was only hurt because Harry had managed to hide today. He owed it to the boy to try and help, however pointless. Harry had half a plan in his head to maybe lure Dudley into a chase and hope he managed to evade him for the next fifteen minutes, until the bell rang, but he knew already that most of his plans tended to go awry.

Dudley turned scarlet at the nickname, and Harry knew he had him. There was something almost satisfying about winding Dudley up, even if he knew how it would end. Some sort of small payback, like waving a big red flag at a raging bull you know will get you eventually.

“Shut _up_ , Potty,” Dudley snarled, his meaty hands curling into fists. Harry felt a little thrill at his anger.

“Aw, you don't like ‘Diddykins’ anymore? I’ll be sure to let your mum know,” Harry said, keeping light on his feet in case Dudley decided to charge.

Dudley’s nostrils flared, but the look was soon replaced by a nasty grin. “At least I have a mum. Yours doesn’t call you anything, because she’s _dead_.”

There was a soft gasp from the ground, and even Piers looked a bit surprised for half a second. Harry felt the words like a punch to the gut, but he forced a smirk onto his face. “Nice one, Duds. How long did it take you to work that out? I’ve only been living with you for ten years.”

Piers had always been a bit cleverer than Dudley, and he jumped in at the first sign of Dudley’s snarl. “Like you’re so smart, Potter. Running in to defend this crybaby. I bet he _is_ your boyfriend, right Dud?”

Dudley seemed to calm a little at the prospect of making fun of Harry. He laughed meanly, turning back to Michael, who was indeed crying now. “Ha! Is Harry your big boyfriend, coming to save you?” he sneered, aiming a mock kick in Michael's direction and laughing gleefully as he flinched.

“Shut _up_ , Dudley,” Harry snarled, but Dudley ignored him. Michael’s tears seemed to be egging him on.

“Big, tough Harry, coming to rescue the princess. I bet he fancies you, cause you look like a girl. Don’t you, Harry?” Dudley was looking between them now, mean little eyes narrowed in glee at hitting a nerve. Michael finally struggled to his feet, wincing as his bleeding palms made contact with the ground. He was almost as short as Harry, who was the shortest boy in his year. He looked between them all, watery eyes wide with fear and nose red from crying.

Harry could feel his face flush, now. “Just – leave him alone, Dudley! I mean it!”

“Ooh, Harry’s mad!” Piers sniggered, delightedly. He seemed to remember the watch in his hand, for he held it back up, taunting Michael, whose eyes had latched onto it immediately. “Come on then, Harry. Come get your boyfriend’s watch for him.” His smile turned cruel. “Or maybe I should just throw it on the roof?” he asked, mockingly thoughtful. Michael let out a sob and made a pointless grab for the watch, which Piers easily dodged.

Piers waved the watch towards Harry, whose feet felt rooted to the ground. He’d never get it off Piers before Dudley jumped on him. But what could he do? Michael was looking utterly miserable, eyes darting between the watch and the boys, hands wringing in front of him and tears fresh on his face. Harry swallowed. Piers would do it. He wouldn’t be able to back down, not in front of Dudley. And even if a teacher could retrieve the watch, surely it would break on contact with the roof. The thing looked delicate, as well as old. Harry was stuck with no good options, but running away wasn’t even one of them. Could he trick them, somehow? But as soon as the thought came, he felt a blanket of exhausted hopelessness wash over him. What was even the point? They’d get him, eventually. They always did. Maybe he’d evade them today, but tomorrow he wouldn’t be so lucky. And when he made them mad – like when he managed to outrun them – the beatings and the taunts were always worse, the next time. Truthfully, the fastest way out was through.

Harry drew his eyes from Michael’s wide, watery ones to Piers’ calculating, knowing little smile. _He_ knew the rules, too. Sometimes Harry hated him even more than Dudley. His cousin was an idiot, throwing his weight around because he thought it was his right, like Uncle Vernon. Piers, though, just enjoyed being on top. There was a certain logic to it – Piers was small and scrawny, almost as bad as Harry, and he wasn’t anyone’s favourite, or good-looking, or very good in school. He’d be nothing without Dudley, and being with Dudley meant that every day he got to watch other people hurt, safe from the sidelines. Piers knew how this would go, and so did Harry.

Stepping forward, Harry walked into the line of fire. Dudley’s smile was victorious, as if he’d managed to pull off a great trick. Harry kept his eyes on the watch, twirling in Piers’ outstretched fingers. He got within two feet before Piers’ hand suddenly closed around his prize, face turning thoughtful. His eyes darted from Dudley, who looked a little put-out, to Harry, whose eyes hadn’t left his.

“Michael,” Piers said, contemplatively. “Do you want your watch back?”

Michael looked between them, smart enough to sense a trick when he heard one. He nodded, hesitantly. “Do you really need Harry here to get it for you? I didn’t know you were _actually_ a baby.” The younger boy’s ears turned dark red, bright against his pale hair.

“’m not a baby,” he mumbled.

“What was that, little baby?” Piers asked, tauntingly. Harry held in his sigh. Things never ended well when Piers got an idea into his head. One thing he and Dudley could agree on – they both preferred a straightforward beating to these mind games.

“I’m not a baby!” Michael snapped, voice too wet to sound anything but. Harry winced.

“Well,” said Piers, smirk spreading slowly across his face, “I think you should tell Harry here how you really feel.”

Dudley still seemed confused as to why there was no hitting going on, but like a dog, he seemed to be getting excited just from the atmosphere. “Yeah,” he said, sneering, “go on, _Harry_.”

Harry had to refrain from rolling his eyes. Poor Michael looked between him and the other two nervously, shifting his weight and sniffing once.

He was taking too long for Piers. “You’d probably have your stupid watch back already if it wasn’t for Harry, sticking his nose in your business. He thinks you’re a baby. He wants to _protect_ you. Isn’t that creepy? I think you should tell him.” Piers’ lip was curled up slightly, and his eyes were trained unerringly on Harry.

Dudley seemed to be catching on. “Yeah,” he sniggered, “he probably fancies you. Break up with your boyfriend, little baby.”

Michael had been looking at Harry apologetically, but at this his eyes snapped round to Harry. “I’m _not_ a baby! And he’s not my boyfriend! I – I don’t even like him! He’s – he’s creepy, and _weird._ No one likes him.”

Harry swallowed. Knowing that Michael was only saying all this because Dudley and Piers were making him didn’t make it hurt any less. And, the little voice in his head which always sounded like Aunt Petunia whispered, it didn’t make it _untrue_.

“Tell him, not us,” Piers said, giving the watch a little wiggle, as if encouraging a puppy to do a trick. “Or do you need your boyfriend to protect you?”

“No!” the smaller boy yelled, and Harry flinched as he turned on him, eyes desperate and furious. “Go away, Potter! I don’t want your help and I’m not your stupid _boyfriend_. This is none of your business. Stop being weird!”

Harry heard a surprised laugh from behind him, and finally noticed that a small crowd had gathered to watch the spectacle. They were all laughing, and half were sneering at Harry. Some were whispering behind their hands, giving him looks. Dudley and Piers grinned triumphantly. Nausea turned his stomach, and Harry felt shame engulfing him as his face burned. He was dimly aware of Piers sneering a mocking, ‘Good boy,” to Michael before tossing his watch in the air, and Michael crying out and diving to catch it, but he turned away before he could see if it smashed. The crowd parted for him as he dashed through them blindly, and the rushing in his ears drowned out most of the jeering. He ignored a chuckled, “Get chucked, Potter?” and ran.

But within moments, the scene began to change. Harry was trying to run, but his legs or the air felt too heavy, like trying to run along the bottom of a swimming pool. Everything was blurring around him, and all the background noise began to fade. He heard, suddenly, a laugh from somewhere nearby, malicious and clear.

He looked up, and froze. Blaise Zabini was looking down at him, a sneer making his friendly face almost unrecognisable. Suddenly Harry was on the ground, and something was dripping from his nose. He reached a hand up to touch, and it came away red.

“I don’t even like him, he’s so creepy,” someone was saying. He knew that voice, but he couldn’t place it for a second, because the words were so incongruous.

“Ron?” he said, as the boy came into view, “Hermione?” They were standing together, identical looks of disdain on their faces. The crowd had vanished around them, and the playground was hazy and still.

“Help me up,” Harry said, trying to pull himself to his feet, but he seemed to be stuck to the ground. His body suddenly seemed to be too heavy to move. He stared at his arms, lying motionless at his sides, and willed them to move; they didn’t even twitch.

“Ron, Hermione,” he said, the first claws of panic crawling up his spine.

This time it was Hermione who spoke. “No one likes him,” she was telling Ron, whose eyes seemed to be turning as red as his hair. “I wish he’d just leave us alone - he’s always sticking his nose into our business.”

“No,” Harry mumbled. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. Hermione doesn’t think that. _She doesn’t._ He started struggling in earnest, filled with sudden certainty that if he could just stand up, his friends would stop saying these things, but it was no use. A strange shiver went through him, and he began to feel hot – too hot; the ground was burning him. “Ron,” he said, panic entering his voice, “Ron, help me!” Why wasn’t Ron helping him? He was his best friend. His _best_ friend.

But this Ron just laughed, low and cruel like Harry’d never heard before. It sounded so wrong in his voice. “I wouldn’t help a nasty little boy like you,” dream-Ron scoffed, but that was wrong too; it was Aunt Petunia who’d said that to him once, years ago.

“I…” Harry tried to wriggle to find some reprieve from the burning ground; he felt like he was being cooked in his Aunt’s frying pan. A new voice brought his focus back to his friends like a slap to the face.

“I don’t _want_ your help,” the gaunt form of Theodore Nott spoke in a cold, disgusted tone he’d never used with Harry before. “I’m not your stupid boyfriend. Stop being _weird_.” Harry had to swallow the nausea creeping up his throat. No, Michael had said that, not Nott. Not Theo. Harry heard Ron and Hermione laughing again, but they seemed to have disappeared from sight.

“No!” he said again, firmer, pulling with all his strength at his useless arm. “Stop it!”

“Just stay down, Potter. We’re not friends. You’re being weird again.” Theo's lip was curled hatefully.

“No!” said Harry, and with one great tug he was on his feet, but suddenly his hands were on Nott’s face, and he wasn’t Nott anymore: he was Quirrell, and he was _burning_. “No!” Harry cried, as the man screamed and his skin fell away from his face, “Please!”

But now his hands were stuck like glue to Quirrell’s face, and within a blink of the eye, the face changed to Ron. His friend was screaming now, and Harry felt pure terror flash through him. Blink, and it was Hermione writhing in pain, begging him to stop. Blink, and it was Ginny, small like she was when Harry found her in the chamber. Blink, and it was Theo again, and his dark eyes were wide with fear. “Harry, please!” the boy cried, before he turned back into Ron, whose eyes were pure red now as he lunged forward —

Harry woke up panting, with the distinct feeling of being wet. He blinked at the blurry tapestry above him and felt his covers clenched tight in his hands and he gulped in air. He was in his dorm, in Gryffindor. It was early morning, judging by the light through his curtains and the snores around him. His hands came up to his face, and he felt wet. For a horrible moment he remembered the blood from his dream. Had it been real, after all? But squinting at his hands in the dim light, he saw they were clear.

_Oh_. He felt shame fill him again; he hadn’t cried in a very long time, and over a silly dream of all things. He’d been sweating too, he realised, shifting in his damp pyjamas uncomfortably, and would have to shower. He managed to push down the sob in his throat and took stock. He was fine, physically. His breathing slowly returned to normal, and he hurriedly brought the bottom of his shirt up to dry his eyes. His pyjamas were Dudley’s old t-shirts, threadbare and holey things he wouldn’t wear outside his dorm, so there was plenty of spare material. The leftover panic was receding now, leaving him damp and wide awake and shivering slightly. Already the vividness of the dream was fading, leaving him with just the impression of the cold, and that plunging twist of shame in his stomach.

He’d barely fumbled for his glasses when the curtains around his bed were dragged open, and a half-asleep Ron stuck his torso through. Harry jumped, and felt mortification fill him as he hastily wiped at his eyes for any remaining dampness. “Ron!” he snapped, and immediately felt guilty. Ron didn’t seem to notice though, his wide eyes stuck on Harry’s cheeks, where Harry could feel the remnant of tears and a sharp twinge from rubbing them so roughly. Harry cleared his throat, desperate for him to stop looking at him like that, and Ron blinked. “Uh, sorry, mate. I heard… you alright?”

Harry nodded hastily. He could feel his shoulders rising, and suddenly he couldn’t meet his friend’s eyes _. I wouldn’t help a nasty little boy like you._

Ron wasn’t leaving. Why wasn’t he leaving?

“Did you have… a bad dream?” His friend asked, his voice characteristically awkward. Harry could feel the heat in his face now like a living thing.

“Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “‘S fine, though. Sorry for waking you. Uh, you can go back to bed, I’ll just...” he waved his hand at the general area, gesturing at nothing in particular, but hoping desperately Ron would take the hint.

Ron nodded slowly from his peripheral as Harry studied his duvet and willed the boy to leave. But instead, Ron seemed to come to some sort of decision, nodding once sharply, mouth set in a line Harry was very familiar with. Pulling the curtain back round, he clambered onto the bottom of Harry’s bed, gangly legs tucked under him uncomfortably. Harry blinked at him in confusion and mild alarm, but Ron wasn’t paying him attention; it was his turn to study the duvet, his fingers trailing over the fabric aimlessly. “I have bad dreams too, sometimes,” he mumbled after a moment, keeping his voice low so as not to wake the others. In the low light, with Ron’s tousled bed-head and dark red pyjamas, the soft snores of their dorm-mates created a strange soundtrack to what suddenly felt like a very intimate moment. “They’re just ‘bout spiders, usually, or the ghoul, but sometimes… Sometimes, I dream about the Chamber, and Ginny. Mainly what might’ve happened, y’know - if you hadn’t saved her.” He began picking at a loose thread, mouth tight, and Harry could see his ears turning red. He felt like there was something heavy in his stomach. The silence was like rock as Harry waited for Ron to continue. After a moment, he did. 

“I caught mum crying, a few days after summer started.” He was still speaking to the duvet. “Ginny locked herself in her room, and I reckon mum was just... I dunno. She pretended like she hadn’t been crying, but I’d seen her. I wish she hadn’t pretended. The twins kept trying to cheer everyone up with jokes, and Percy was, well, Percy, and dad didn’t know what to say, really. It was just me and mum who, well. I just wish she hadn’t pretended, is all.” Ron shrugged, and Harry saw how uncomfortable he was, and felt a rush of something through him – something very warm, that made him clear his throat before he could speak.

“I’m sorry, Ron. And,” he took a deep breath, “I promise not to pretend I’m okay, if I’m not. Alright?”

Ron finally looked up from where he’d pulled the thread loose, and his smile was small and awkward, but so genuine and _Ron_ that Harry couldn’t help but return it.

“You alright, then, mate?” Ron said, after a moment, tone casual but voice expectant.

Harry nodded. “It was just a stupid nightmare, honest. It was…” His lips twisted, but Ron deserved at least a bit of sincerity. “…upsetting, but I know it wasn’t real. I’m fine now. I promise.” And Harry found that he was telling the truth. His smile grew, as he stretched and wiped the rest of the wet from his face, clearing his throat again.

“I bet breakfast’ll be starting soon. Want to head down?”

Ron’s face lit up, and Harry laughed.

The dementor lesson dogged Harry’s thoughts in the days leading up to it. Of course he was excited – regardless of the subject matter, receiving personal lessons on advanced magic from the best Defence Professor they’d ever had was undeniably - well, cool; the real weight on his mind, however, was that he’d yet to inform Nott – Theo – that he’d signed him up for the lessons, too.

Every potential anxiety had flown through his mind since his conversation with Lupin. Would Theo be angry at him for telling Lupin that he also had trouble with Dementors? It was pretty much tantamount to admitting that Theo had some dark things in his past, and Harry knew if it was him he wouldn’t want anyone – even a friend - talking to a random teacher about his own personal business; would he think Harry had overstepped, asking Lupin? Or would he just think Harry was being weird, worrying over the wellbeing of someone who had only decided they were friends the night before? The last one had been making him feel rather ill, even if it seemed the least likely; he knew it was just his dream from the other night talking. Theo wouldn’t think he was being weird. He might be mad, but probably not about Harry caring too much.

The worry stayed with him until dinner on Tuesday evening. Hermione had gotten fed up of him pushing his peas around on his plate, and had, in no uncertain terms, told him to just go and talk to Nott. Harry had cleared his throat, embarrassed at being read so easily, but had acquiesced pretty quickly: he was really running out of time, now. He had already spotted the Slytherins eating at their table earlier, and now cursed them for sitting near the middle, instead of at the end where he’d be able to intercept them a bit more subtly.

He was hoping they’d leave before him, so he could catch them at the doors instead of the table, but he seemed to be out of luck. Ron and Hermione were both finished, and Harry had given up on his dinner early, too nervous to muster up an appetite.

“Want us to come with you to talk to him?” Hermione asked, concern clear on her brows.

“No, ‘s alright. Easier if I just talk to him myself. Thanks, though, Hermione.” She smiled at him, but Harry could tell she was still a little worried. Harry had only shared the basics with his friends, which had left him feeling a little guilty. But he really didn’t think it was his place to tell them any details about Nott’s life. He’d told them that Lupin had offered him the lessons after all, and that he’d asked if Nott could join him, since he’d given him the idea in the first place, and he wanted to learn to defend himself from Dementors, too. He’d seen a flash of hurt across Hermione’s face at this, and knew she was wondering why he hadn’t asked for Hermione to join him instead; there wasn’t a spell on Earth Hermione wouldn’t want to learn. But the hurt had quickly made way for that calculating look she wore sometimes, when she suspected there was something he wasn’t telling her. He’d tried to convey with his eyes that he wasn’t trying to leave her out, and her face had relaxed somewhat. Harry had never been more grateful that his friend knew him so well.

Hermione shot him another concerned look as they stood up from the table, and Harry tried to smile reassuringly at her. They had just past the end of the Gryffindor table, Harry trailing behind a little reluctantly, when a voice called, “Alright, Harry?”

Cedric Diggory was approaching from the Hufflepuff table, friendly grin in full force. Harry smiled awkwardly at the older boy and tried to casually scan himself for any spilled food. Finding nothing, thank Merlin, he nodded. Cedric sent Ron and Hermione friendly smiles as he reached them. Both blinked at him in vague bemusement. Harry cleared his throat quickly. “Yeah, er, you?”

Cedric shrugged good-naturedly. “Not bad, thanks. I just wanted to check how you were doing, y’know, after the game.”

Harry shrugged. “Oh, fine. Uh. You deserved to win,” he said, trying to sound at least a little sincere. “You played well. No, uh, hard feelings.” 

Cedric frowned, watching him for a moment before speaking. “I mean – when you fell. I tried to visit you in the Hospital Wing, but Pomphrey was on the warpath, and wasn’t allowing visitors.” He rolled his eyes good naturedly.

Harry blinked, and felt a tinge of embarrassment rise in his stomach. “Really? Uh, thanks, Cedric. That was… really nice of you.” He could feel Hermione and Ron’s eyes boring into him, as well as more than a few nearby Hufflepuffs, who were shooting them unsubtly curious looks. Shit. He willed his cheeks not to flush, and cleared his throat.

Cedric just shrugged. “Least I could do. I’m glad you’re alright.” His smile was sincere, and Harry felt bizarrely touched. It was strange to think the older boy actually cared about his health, despite having only met him properly once. Maybe it was a Hufflepuff thing. “Well, I’d better get off. Got patrols tonight.” He pulled a face, and Harry forced a smile. “Take care, Harry,” he said, clapping Harry on the shoulder as he passed.

Harry mumbled a goodbye and tried desperately to will his face to cool down as he absently rolled his shoulder. His eyes caught another pair at the Gryffindor table, and he felt a dash of panic to see Angelina frowning over at him. Hastily he turned back to the direction of the Slytherin table, pointedly ignoring the older girl. He could see Ron smirking at him out the corner of his eye, the bastard. 

He ignored his friends pointedly, and said his goodbyes a few feet away from the table. Hermione sent him one last searching look, before being dragged away by Ron. Taking a deep breath, and painfully aware of the looks he was already receiving, he approached.

Bullstrode saw him first. Her eyebrows raised pointedly as he drew closer, and he thought he detected genuine surprise in her eyes. After a moment, Theo noticed her expression and followed her gaze to Harry, followed quickly by Zabini and Davis. Harry saw the same surprise echoed in Theo’s eyes for a second before his usual calm neutrality returned. Zabini and Davis has no such qualms about hiding their feelings: Zabini’s face stretched into a grin, and Davis sat up in eager anticipation.

He took a moment to take in the students around them, and spotted Greengrass and Parkinson a few seats down, talking quietly together and mercifully not having spotted him. Harry felt an overwhelming pulse of pure relief as he realised Malfoy and his goons were nowhere to be found.

“Er, hello,” he began as he neared, giving a little wave to the group and immediately regretting it. Zabini’s smile grew and he waved back, only a little sardonic. Harry rolled his eyes, but found himself smiling at the boy anyway.

“Hello, Harry. Everything alright?” Theo asked slowly, head cocked a little like a curious bird.

“Yeah,” he said, the sound of his name from Theo’s mouth eliciting an awkward little smile as he hovered behind Davis’ chair, the girl twisted round in her seat to watch him with unabashed interest. “I was just wondering if I could talk to you for a sec, uh, Theo?”

Theo’s lips twitched – probably at his awkward fumbling over his name, the bastard – but he nodded smoothly, and made to rise.

“Hang on,” said Bullstrode suddenly, her hand poised near, but not quite touching, Theo’s wrist. “He hasn’t finished his dinner,” she said, her eyes trained on Harry and expression strange. There was a charged pause. Theo was watching her, the slightest of frowns on his face. Harry glanced between them awkwardly for a moment, before Theo sighed heavily and turned to give Harry a vaguely apologetic look.

Bullstrode continued. “Maybe _Harry_ should wait with us until you finish, Theo,” she said, voice faux-pleasant, before dropping pretences and saying, tone firm, “Take a seat.” She nodded to the small gap between Zabini and Davis, who obligingly slid further apart on the bench, looks of amusement on their traitor faces. It clearly was not a request. Perhaps Bullstrode’s expression wasn’t so strange, Harry thought ruefully. He didn’t have to be a Slytherin to know a test when faced with one.

He held in a sigh, scanning the Slytherin table cautiously. It wasn’t unfair, he supposed. Just because he and Theo were friends now, didn’t mean it was the same for the others. The other two, maybe. He liked both Zabini and Davis, and he would cautiously bet that the feeling was mutual. But Bullstrode had regarded him with nothing but suspicion from the beginning. And Bullstrode was protective of Theo, he reminded himself. Whatever was in their history, that at least was clear. And Harry could admit a tiny bit of curiosity in himself – what would happen, if he sat with them? There was a tiny thrill in the idea of breaking such an unspoken rule: a Gryffindor, sitting at the Slytherin table. He could see the same mischievous excitement in Davis and Zabini’s eyes, and felt his lips twitch in answer, mind made up.

“Sure,” he said, casually, as he stepped over the bench and plopped down between them. “Take your time,” he added pleasantly, and felt another little thrill when the corner of Theo’s lips twitched up in a smirk. Bullstrode’s eyes were narrowed, and by the slight tightening of her mouth, Harry figured she had expected him to turn tail. Clearly, she hadn’t spent enough time with Gryffindors. Running in head-first at the slightest challenge was sort of their _thing_.

“So,” he said, sitting back a little, eyes locked with Bullstrode, the picture of relaxation, “how’s your week been so far?”

Zabini did laugh at this, finally, hand coming up to cover his mouth reflexively. It made him look much younger, and Harry had to force his face to stay absently pleasant.

“Stupendous, Potter,” Bullstrode said, drily, after a moment. Theo picked up his fork with another roll of his eyes and began delicately picking at some of the veg on his plate.

There was a small pause as Harry tried to think of something to say. Thankfully, Davis seemed to be in the same boat. “Are Granger and Weasley alright?” the girl asked, rather abrupt, sipping at what looked like pumpkin juice, “only I saw them arguing earlier. It looked a little heated.”

Harry must have been watching the pumpkin juice a little too closely, as Theo leaned forward to snag an empty cup from a nearby empty space, and deposited it in front of Harry with a nod to a nearby jug of juice. “Help yourself,” he said, casually.

“Thanks,” Harry said, surprised for some reason. Reaching for the jug, he glanced at Davis, who was watching them with a vaguely amused expression. “Oh, Ron and Hermione – yeah, they’re fine. They, uh, bicker a lot. It was probably about Crookshanks and Scabbers.”

At four blank looks, he grimaced. “Sorry. Hermione’s cat – or, well, Kneazle – and Ron’s rat. Crookshanks keeps going for him, and Ron’s not taking it well.”

Surprisingly, it was Bullstrode who frowned at this. “Kneazles are very smart animals. Granger’s shouldn’t be attacking any other pets – they know which animals to leave alone.”

Davis seemed to agree. “That’s bizarre, Harry. Has she tried talking to – what did you say his name was? Crookshanks? That’s sweet.”

Harry blinked, then blinked again. He didn’t know whether he was more surprised at her use of his given name – shit, should he be calling her Tracey now, too? – or at her suggestion for Hermione to try reasoning with her pet cat. He glanced cautiously at the others for help; Bullstrode was frowning thoughtfully, and didn’t seem to find anything amiss with this question, but Zabini seemed to be smothering a grin, and when he met Theo’s eyes, the boy was giving Davis – Tracey? – a frankly indulgent look.

“Er – I don’t think she has, but I’ll pass the suggestion along,” he settled on eventually, and was relieved when she smiled. “Thanks, uh,” _Gryffindor_ , he reminded himself, “Tracey.”

She beamed at this, and Zabini snorted. “You might as well call me Blaise too, then, _Harry_ ,” he said with a smirk, sharing a look with Tracey, who rolled her eyes.

Harry pointedly avoided looking over at Bullstrode, who made no such offer.

“Well,” he said after a moment, “what did you think of-”

He was interrupted by a clatter from a little way down the table.

“ _Potter?_ ” Pansy Parkinson seemed to have noticed him at last. At the sound of his name, heads all along the table on either side of them whipped round to stare in his direction. He saw Theo’s face fall into his blank mask, and Bullstrode’s shoulders rise, but his attention was grabbed by the numerous thunderous looks now being sent his way, particularly by the older years.

Harry swallowed, and with a thought of, _oh well, what the hell_ , he glanced back over at the girl with a frown. “Yes, Parkinson?”

Zabini had a sudden mysterious itch near his nose and had to hide his face, but the atmosphere around them was undeniably tense as the girl spluttered for a moment, clearly at a loss for words. “W-what are you doing! This is the Slytherin table! You – you can’t be here, Potter!”

Harry frowned thoughtfully and took another languid sip of his pumpkin juice before answering. He knew he was pushing his luck, but, well. Self-control had never been his strong suit. “I’m just having some pumpkin juice, Parkinson,” he said, reasonably, and wiggled his cup at her.

A younger student to his left – a second year, he reckoned – let out some sort of squeak at this, and Parkinson scowled. “Don’t play stupid, Potter. You’re not allowed to sit here. Go back to Gryffindor,” she said, menacingly.

Harry licked his lips and let his pretence fall. “I’m not doing anything, Parkinson,” he said, as calm as he could manage with all the eyes on him. “And there’s no rule against sitting at another table, as far as I’m aware.”

She stared at him for a moment, floundering, before clearly deciding to switch track. “What, Gryffindor finally get sick of you, Potter?” she smirked, a cruel gleam in her eye. “We’ve got better things to do than play host to Gryffindor’s rejects.” He heard a laugh from further down the table, and rolled his eyes, trying to swallow down the anger at her words.

Parkinson clearly smelled blood, for her smirk only grew. “Just because the Gryffindors have finally realised what a loser you are, doesn’t mean you can come bother us, Potter. I’d say go try the Hufflepuffs, but I’m not sure even _they_ would want you.”

Harry’s mouth opened in a snarl, and he just had time to see a victorious glint in her eye, before a foot collided with his under the table. Blinking, he turned to see Theo giving him a steady look. Harry swallowed. Taking a deep breath, he turned back to Parkinson, to say – something, but he was beaten to it.

“Leave it, Pansy,” Daphne Greengrass muttered, not taking her eyes off the plate in front of her. The other girl blinked, clearly shocked, but she was stopped from responding by another voice.

“Yeah, if Potter wants to take advantage of our good company, who are we to stop him?” It was an older boy – a fifth year, maybe – who Harry recognised from the Slytherin Quidditch team. Pucey, he thought, bewildered. He was stocky and looked like he could hold his own against most, but he was treating Harry to a smirk, and seemed bizarrely amused.

“Plus,” the older boy added, lifting his own cup as if in toast, “everyone knows the elves give us the best pumpkin juice.” That garnered a few laughs, Harry noted in surprise. Pucey met his eye and shot him a wink, to Harry’s alarm, before turning back to his friends. He seemed to take all the tension with him. Several people were still glaring his way, but the atmosphere was suddenly far less fraught; Harry saw Parkinson scowling down at her food, Greengrass silent beside her, looking distinctly uncomfortable. Harry spared a moment to wonder what on earth that was about, before he turned back to his – friends.

“Well,” he said, after a long moment of silence as they all stared at each other, “That went well.”

There was a second of quiet, before Tracey and Blaise began laughing in unison. Harry couldn’t help but grin with them as Blaise elbowed him friendlily.

“Honestly, Harry. You’re like a magnet for trouble. Never a dull moment with you around.”

Harry rolled his eyes. _You don’t know the half of it_ , he thought grimly.

“I’m sorry about that.”

The voice was quiet, and it took Harry a moment to place it as Bullstrode’s. Harry looked over at the girl, puzzled. Her face was serious, and she made eye contact for a moment before frowning down at her plate.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve had worse than Parkinson,” he shrugged, fiddling with the rim of his goblet. An idea occurred to him suddenly. “She won’t, uh, give you any trouble, will she? You two share a room with her, don’t you?” He looked between Bullstrode and Tracey, the latter of which gave him a small smile while the former let out a snort.

“We can handle Parkinson,” Bullstrode said, and watching her easy confidence, Harry had to agree.

He glanced between them all, the thought only burrowing further into his mind. “The rest of your house, though. Will you be okay? After me, y’know, having dinner with you? In public?”

It was Theo who responded. He smiled, and Harry felt another stupid flutter in his stomach. “Don’t worry about us, Harry. We’ll be fine. We know what we’re doing.”

Harry wanted to argue that Bullstrode didn’t quite seem to be onboard with him befriending them, but he found himself bizarrely disinclined to argue when it might make Theo drop his smile. They’d talk about it another time, maybe.

He changed track, leaning back in his seat to try and cast a subtle glance down the table. “What about Pucey? Why d’you think he stood up for me?”

Theo shrugged, and Harry saw a frustrated frown flash over his face for a moment. “I’m not sure what his play is,” he admitted. “Perhaps he was just trying to keep the peace – fighting at the table doesn’t look good for anyone.” He didn’t seem quite convinced.

“But you don’t think so?” Harry pressed.

Theo sighed, and rested his cutlery against his plate. “Probably not. Pucey has always seemed decent, but I can’t imagine him putting himself in the limelight just to stop a squabble. He’s not even a Prefect. He must gain something by having you here. I just don’t know what, yet. Just… keep an eye on him, for now.”

Harry nodded, holding back a sigh. He hated all this duplicity, but he supposed he’d signed up for Slytherin intrigue when he set out on befriending them.

“Now,” said Theo, gathering his bag. “You wanted to talk to me?”

Dusk was setting in by the time they came to a stop, somewhere on the fourth floor. They were near one of the windows that looked out onto the grounds, and Harry perched against the ledge, looking out. Theo had let him stew in his own silence as they walked, and now seemed content to wait for Harry to speak, leaning against the wall by the other window, watching.

Harry cleared his throat, and focused on the miniature figure of Hagrid, doing something laborious in his garden far below. “Uh, so. When I was in the Hospital wing, Professor Lupin came to visit me.” Theo said nothing, and Harry let out a breath, before continuing, slowly. “Do you remember how I said Lupin was going to teach me the Patronus Charm?”

Theo nodded, cautiously. His eyes were intent when Harry glanced back, and he turned back to watching Hagrid quickly.

“Well,” he said, in a rush now, “when he came to visit, I sort of asked him if you could learn the charm, too.”

Harry’s body was stiff as he waited for Theo to say something. Hagrid was dragging something from his garden and lifting it onto a wheelbarrow. Harry swallowed as the silence stretched.

“I mean, I didn’t tell him anything – personal,” he blurted. “I might’ve implied that you had trouble with them, too, but I didn’t say anything, you know, or-”

“Harry,” Theo cut him off, softly, and Harry felt his breath leaving him in a rush. He steeled himself, and turned quickly, bracing himself for Theo to look - fine. Theo looked fine. A little amused, maybe, and rather thoughtful, but not like he was about to hex Harry and declare their friendship over.

Harry blinked at him, a little stupidly. “You’re not – you’re not mad? That I told him – y’know?”

Theo seemed to be studying Harry, but whatever he found, his mouth relaxed a little, and he glanced out the window before replying. “I mean – it would’ve been nice had you asked, first, but I imagine it was a rather spur of the moment decision?” Harry nodded frantically, and Theo’s mouth twitched like it did when he found something amusing, and Harry was so relieved he felt momentarily faint. “But no, Harry, I’m not mad.”

Harry almost couldn’t believe it. “Are you – are you sure?” he couldn’t help but ask, even as he chastised himself for looking a gift horse in the mouth.

Theo did smile now, and Harry found his own mouth mirroring it, despite his confusion. “Harry,” the other boy said, a little exasperated, but gentle, “you’ve arranged for me to receive private tutoring on a very advanced charm that I’d otherwise have to learn on my own; I promise I’m not mad. If anything, I’m grateful.”

Harry had to swallow again, suddenly. This hadn’t gone as he’d expected. At all. “Oh,” he said, leaning back against the stone wall. “Right. I mean – you don’t have to be, you know, grateful. You gave me the idea in the first place, so, y’know,” he shrugged, and they both paused momentarily as two fourth-year Ravenclaws wandered past, chatting animatedly, watching them until they were out of view.

Theo hummed, and Harry glanced back at him. It was the other boy’s turn not to meet his eyes. “I know,” he said, after a moment, turning to look out the window near him. “But I am.” His mouth twisted a little, before straightening out. “Thank you, Harry,” he said, and his eyes were suddenly locked with his for one long second, before he looked away again. “For thinking of me.”

Harry wanted to say something smart, then, or something cool and casual about how it was no big deal, but words were failing him, because it was, wasn’t it? It was always going to be a big deal to be thought of, for him, and he was beginning to suspect, for Theo too. Maybe they’d never quite get used to it. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

“Yeah,” he managed at last, and caught the edge of Theo’s smile as they both turned to look out the window, watching the sun set for a moment longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you so much for reading!! All the comments from the last chapter really meant So much to me, and gave me the enthusiasm to keep doing despite a rough month. I particularly enjoyed writing the second section of this chapter, and I hope that shines through! Till next time!


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